


Princes Park

by evilwearsabow



Series: Princes Park [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Agent!bond, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Anal Sex, Asexual Character, Demi!ace too?, Eventual sequel?, Gay Sex, Gray Asexual Character, Happy Ending, Homophobia, I'm sorry my knowledge of english royalty is apalling so I made an AU dammit, M/M, Modern Royalty, Oral Sex, Prince!Q, Rough Sex, Royalty, Sherlock Mentions, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Totally of-age though, agegap, because not all aces hate sex, end-game 00Q, fuck bitches, genius!Q, gray ace!Q, prince!AU, who has sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-05-02 16:12:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 44,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5254829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilwearsabow/pseuds/evilwearsabow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q is 18, and he's loved Bond for as long as he could remember. But, there's one little problem; He's crown prince and next for the throne, and Bond, is his mothers favorite guard. </p><p>Drama and idiocy ensues, when things don't go according to plan, until the Prince takes matters into his own hands. </p><p>Will he find his place in the throne he must reign, or inevitably fail queen and country and all its worth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Obligations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LitMech (PatrioticFrisbee)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PatrioticFrisbee/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, not sorry.

“ _Richard Vaughan Yates_ your brother was an unseemly cad.”

 

He watches the obelisk with a sort of vague curiosity your average gentlemen would consider even for the most unspectacular of art pieces. Like this 19th century statue dedicated to a man who built a proper park.

At least, Quincy Siger Alcott Holmes thought it was, a normal 18 year old boy, who enjoyed poetry, art, literature and the finest of white hat hacking technologies.

One of those, however, were exempt from his 'few of his favorite things' list, of course. He sat primly half on the seat with the ambruche of a pianist, yet not over a laptop as per usual. No, instead he has a sketchbook planted firmly on his lap. A bit of something he'd do to pas the time and disconnect from it all.

On the computer, he'd manage to flip through the news no matter what. He could never get away from the wifi, and being connected to all of that was just as exhausting as living through it.

“Happy Birthday."

A voice jolts him out of his flower laden reverie, nearly dropping his pen but managing to keep most of his poised air.

“Oh, yes, that is today isn't it.” Q feigns, lighthearted, a nonchalant attitude, when really he'd been sort of waiting all his life for this time. It's not as if he couldn't already drink, or already sneaks a few smokes on occasion; it's the simple fact that he could look at the man behind him and not feel terribly guilty for the little things that run through his mind.

Such a strong stance, broad shoulders, specks of gray in blond hair that help the two windows of icy azure simply gaze and show everything, without giving anything.

“Did you truly forget?”

“Oh no, no, it just slipped my mind a moment.”

“Don't be late for your party tonight, your highness.” That ending title always made Quincy, (known by 'Q' in his closer circles) want to gag.

“Perish the thought.” A wistful tone.

“Your mother _will_ have my head.”

His agent, James Bond, also known as 7 on the field, really was his mothers favorite and more punctual of the body guard service in the palace. It was why he was upgraded to full guard. Following whoever the Queen deigned important.

Q saw the most of him, as they appeared to get along; and that is the reason why she chose it this way.

“In that case, I'll show up 15 minutes after. No earlier.”

He promises with a smirk, Bond, can't even see his cheeky grin so it's moot anyway. Q continues with his doodles of architecture, just bridges, benches, fountains and this damn phallic obelisk that stands there as a salute to the specific Naval Commander, now body guard, who stands behind Q.

A perfect sandwich reminder that he really needs a rinse under that fountain near by.

“Torture or irony, I'm still trying to decipher.”

“You were never good at code. Mr. Bond.”

“Someone with their nose in my file?”

A pause, “Perhaps.”

“You wound me.” Bond intones without even the slightest bit of pain.

“Little old me? I'm not my brother.”

“Yes, you are quite right.”

“I didn't even explain which.”

“I figured you meant the both of them.”

Q laughs, a full sweet flutter of a thing, lively and playful. No one could get sick of the sound, and even the Queen would halt a conversation just to hear it. Miracle of a noise, Bond figured.

“So mundane, Bond... so like you.”

Bond shrugs one shoulder upwards, but makes no other movement. Or at least one Q could hear, or see. 18, any other man his age would go get piss drunk in public and shag half his party.

Crown prince Quincy Siger Alcott Holmes, would not be 'any other man his age' this evening, as he, would be expected in a fine suit, on time, well groomed and ready to socialize gracefully. Of course.

“Only you could say something like that, and fail at sounding like an insufferable cock.”

Lazy little quip, making Q turn around jovially. Arms folded on the back of the bench, resting his chin there.

“Oh I do so love it when you get vulgar, Bond; it's such a contrast with your suit and tie sort of get up.” Laughter in his eyes, Bond isn't looking at them, at least, directly.

It seems like the moment stretches a bit, it would be awkward but its not. Q sits up to turn back and face whatever Bond seems to be facing. Can't help but feel a tad disappointed, a twist in his stomach at the loss of contact. Even though it was only the eyes; and how foolish is he any way?

 

“No laptop today sir?”

Q stops thinking and he's lost a moment, when, “No, not today, just enjoying my surroundings-- what would mother say?” A soft intonation of scandalous drama.

“Stop over-connecting, or you will not behave for the crown.”

That made no bloody sense, but, mothers never do, do they?

“Perfect, although you make her sound so much more demure; Lift your chest a bit, and personify union jack and earl grey in one millisecond, I assure you, its impossible.” Q does so, with a commendable charade.

“Her majesty _is_ more than capable.”

“That is why, she, is 'her majesty' to you.”

More silence falls between them, and anyone who didn't know Bond would say he looked the average bloke waiting around. Well, no body could say Bond was average, in any regard. Yet they wouldn't distinguish any emotion which way about him.

That's not true, in Q's eyes.

He seems, antsy, to a degree.

“Are you alri--”

“We should get back to the palace...”

“Ah but the party is at six.”

“And your plane leaves in an hour, we'll be expected early.”

A deep sigh, Q reluctantly gets up and packs away his sketch book.

“You brought your laptop.”

“Of course I did, I haven't been on it since this morning though.”

“Of course you did.”

“Oh come off it.”

Bond's smiling, which is a feat in itself; perhaps this birthday dinner party wouldn't be so bad.

 

 

Wrong!

He was so terribly, utterly, completely wrong because as soon as he gets inside Mary, his sister, bolts for him and squeezes him tight to her overly developed chest and if that isn't all shades awkward.

“Sophitia's here!” A sing song tone, Q barely holds back the gagging noise.

That, is his girlfriend.

Princess of Denmark, blue eyed blond bombshell and talk of Oxford.

His brothers make fun, along with everyone else.

Both of the twats, decided to abdicate and leave their youngest brother up to the task. Mycroft joined the navy, injured out and retired a highly decorated officer, similar to Bond however the agent seemed to leave earlier for secret service type ordeals. Q never touched those files of course.

Sherlock abdicated to live the domestic life with his partner John, and although they never seemed to get along. He works as a detective in London, while his partner, a retired army veteran, is now a full time doctor just down the street of their flat.

How quaint!

So it's hours of pampering, hair, makeup- yes! Sodding make up!

They fix him into proper glasses, and the best suit fitted to perfection. Tailored charcoal on fine smokey blue, matching tie.

Yes, so lovely. The ostentatious ballroom covered in the elite, a few people his age (really, just a slight few) wave at him gracefully. All he does is nod courteously, before being practically bombarded by her, this, blond bohemian rhapsody, high pitch, torture and only interesting when the entire party is a smashed mess.

“Darling! Quincy dear!” A shrill sort of haughty voice, that atrocious accent.

“Ah, Sophitia...”

“Yes darling, of course its me, I've been worried sick! Where have you been?” A powder blue dress, no doubt she somehow coordinated their clothing behind the scenes. Ugh, that's positively creepy.

“I told you, Sophi, I've been in Liverpool on holiday. My exams are soon.” Intoning, carefully.

“Oh posh, I'm sure you'll fly right through them, you genius man you. Oh let me tell you what happened this week, you won't believe what Benjamin did in lacrosse the other day!” And there she goes, blathering on and on about something completely inarticulate and dull.

It carries on this way for an entire hour, 2 flutes of champagne and a dance later.

“Sophi I--”

She's giggling loudly. “Oh I do love it when you call me 'Sophi', its completely precious!”

“You, told me, to call you Sophi; did you forget?” He queries, she's not interested, rolling her eyes almost.

“Oh come on, lets go for another dance, yeah?” She's pulling on his elbow so hard he feels as if it will pop right off like some sort of ball jointed doll in a k-pop shop.

Somehow, he manages to pry her off and slip onto the balcony. Slipping his pack of cigarettes out, but searching begrudgingly for his lighter when it was all for naught. Elbows on the ledge, his head sulks lower than his shoulders. Already exhausted.

A flicking sound of an expensive zippo and Q perks a bit, turning at the source of the noise.

“Your mother will kill you.” A swish and a drop of flame appears in his most dire hour. Lighting his little cancer stick, the crown prince hums apathetically. Taking a few deep drags before speaking, smoke through his nose.

“Not if these kill me first.”

Looking vaguely offended, Bond puts his lighter away and stares almost curious at the boy, now man.

“Such morbid talk for the man next in line for the throne.”

A loud exaggerated groan, “Oh don't _remind_ me.”

“I always will, it is important, you will make an excellent king.” He mentions, Q's head snaps up from a distant look once more.

“Brown nosing really doesn't suit you, Bond. I much rather prefer you didn't bullshit your way into the heart of the crown.” Looking pissy, his favorite agent of course doesn't let him down.

“Speaking of bullshit, how is Sophitia?”

“Ohoho! Yes, see now there's a thought... sod off.”

“Touched a spot did I? I'll remember that next time you need a light.”

“You would wouldn't you.”

“Always.”

 

Silence.

 

Q smiles a little, but not at Bond. He never graces many with that emotion, its always the innocent one that he gears away from crowds yet its almost as if the agent can see right through him at times.

“It's not for a while, your highness, don't worry on the future so much that you can't do your duties properly, now.”

“Guessing that means I have to go out, kiss arse and dance more?”

A single nod, “I'll be expected soon, take a few more moments but I can't promise--”

“Understand... just warn me if Sophitia gets out of hand, will you?”

“No promises. I told you.”

A loud groan, but Bond is already out the bloody archways.

“Such is my luck.” The prince grumbles rubbing his face and wishing he could disappear in times like these.

A few more dances, until he can make a speech, feign exhaustion, and make his way to bed. Hanging his suit, before slipping into the sack in the most obnoxious sweater he can find imaginable. Its in these simple moments, these little times, where he can just do as he pleases in the privacy of his own room.

 

 

Waking up however, is not the kind of simple moment he adores. It's only solace, a cup of tea, a sunny side egg on a slice of toast. Supplied with his lap top, and a peony in water; how lovely.

His favorite flower actually.

It brightened up this gray morning splendidly, especially as he ignores the 17 text messages and 3 missed calls from Sophitia. Whom he's supposed to meet today at noon anyway for tea on their yacht.

Yes, a little party with his oxford mates, all more on the intellectual side if anything. Chess team sort, mathematicians, doctors, you name it.

Floating along the Thames with a girl at their side, and Q even had Sophitia constantly in his ear, kissing him, it was awkward until every last one of them were so smashed they couldn't hardly see straight.

And Q was barely on the straight in any regard, as Sophitia took loads of selfies with a few of the other girls. The prince was getting frisky with Stephen in the tiny broom closet. Kissing up a bare chest that had interested him, yes, merely interested. Bodies were bodies, they held no pleasure at all for Q, or, not normally.

But the alcohol made his body respond, even if he wasn't really enjoying it. Not on the level most would boast and brag about. He reaches for Stephens cock, who makes no protest and soon he's sloppily sucking around a mouthful of prestigious oxford prick that has him drooling and humming in a curious sort of intrigue.

“Are you studying me with your mouth? Or sucking me off?” Stephen rasps, trying not to buck his hips, Q chuckles around the lovely prick. Pulling away, leaving a long line of spit on his ripe red cherry lips.

“Are you honestly complaining?”

“Hardly...” Stephen huffs a little laughter.

“I'd say.” The prince looks to the perfectly proportioned organ, and grips at the base tight. Sucking and pleasuring, knuckles at his perineum till it's just too much to handle. His hair a proper grip for the cheeky bastard above him. Who climaxes hard and final into his highness’s mouth biting a plush lower lip to prevent from moaning at a devastating volume.

“Shit...” A hiss, and really a perfect sort of exclamation for what happens in the next few seconds.

Q is proud of his work, semi-hard, and intrigued, but--- just proud. Not turned on per say, he... doesn't want the favor returned at all. It's just-- the door opens.

A deep intake of air, They both have their eyes in the direction of Sophi who's turning properly plum in color at the sight of her 'perfect little prince' on his knees before Stephen Lange, a common boy who plays a mean game of chess.

“Sophi--”

“You're a homosexual!?” She squeaks.

Q rolls his eyes, a she storms off to their room and Stephen is quickly zipping up, trying to escape the situation.

“You know, sexuality is such a fluid sort of thing. Don't be so ignorant...” Already pissed, even though technically he is very much homo-romantic, thank you, very much.

“What the fuck!”

“Sophitia, calm down...”

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say cause she turns around and give him a slap right across his face. “You're a foul, sick, sodomizing, coward!” Shaking in her anger, as the prince stands shocked.

“Don't you fucking tell me to calm down? You ruined everything you know that? Everything! All my plans! And here I am just a beard for your faggot arse!”

Q's jaw drops, and speaking of his jaw he can see another slap incoming so he closes his eyes with a wince.

But it never happens, because a low, dark, voice cuts through the rooms harsh atmosphere.

“Listen darling, if you want to hit someone, lets not be so hasty with the Crown prince of England?” She looks positively horrified now, Q looks away. A wordless call, to get her the fuck off of the yacht and take me home.

Bond does exactly that, taking her by her shoulder to the deck; she's a princess, there's not much he can do that wouldn't start a catastrophe.

Even when every last one of them is gone, the Prince sits in his lavish yacht, dim lights, settled in a nice chair. Holding his face in sheer embarrassment.

That was the worst.

Surprisingly, Bond says nothing. Simply cracks open a bottle of expensive champagne, pours them each a glass. Something they enjoy in complete silence.

The prince, wouldn't of had it any other way, despite it all.

The thought of his birthday sort of ending off like this, wasn't such a bad one. He smirks around the rim of his glass, cherishing such a simple thing. Hopes for a lot more nights like this.

 

Preferably with less angry princesses, of course.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want you to know, that the comments are a blessing and help me tremendously with my writing. Please don't be alarmed! I'll have your fix out soon, especially with the sort of cliff hanger I've given you. I'm not going to lie, comments, suggestions, all that, they really do help more than you could ever know. 
> 
> Please, thanks, and I love you all <3


	2. Infatuated

An overdecorated as per usual, Windsor palace, and his mother seems busy. Crazily so, settling Mary on the couch in a cute little lavender dress. Purple seemed to be the theme, at least there wasn't any verbal affirmation to this. But, here he is in this stately dark purple suit, and dark, you could barely tell it was violet in hue. His tie matched his sisters dress and his shoes were polished. Sherlock was also in a suit, but he removed the tie and a few buttons.

This is the second time he did so, this time, he popped off the two top buttons entirely and lord knows what he did with the tie. His older brother is fidgeting with his sleeves and overall looked extremely uncomfortable. Almost as uncomfortable as Q felt between Sherlock and Mary.

Mycroft entered last, standing in the corner in military uniform, of course something spiffy and regal as his stiff personality. Ever so slightly the eldest boy in the royal family, preferred Quincy out of the lot.

Most likely because he could play a game of chess and beat him, without cheating, or being an insufferable arse.

Q was the child prodigy, and no one expected Sherlock to want the throne, so he was pampered for this position through everything he did. The best schools, teachers, linguists, piano lessons, you name it. The boy had his first computer at four, an I.Q of 158, proper etiquette by seven.

So here he sits watching with a vague curiousity, adjusting his glasses as the room feels terribly stuffy. Now, at 8 years old, his mother waltzes in with grace and announces in her lavender suit that they are finding proper guards for their personal safety.

Sherlock immediately complained, voicing every and any opinion until the first man entered. Three women were also interviewed, and all got jobs surrounding his mother or Mary.

The next 12 or so candidates, came and go. Some were alright, others too antsy, yet there was one in particular that caught Q's eye from the moment he walked into the room.

A swan of a man; or perhaps swan wasn't the right kind.

Either way, charming seemed to cover it.

The way he stood, shouted 'protect, safe, strong'

Q never had seen anyone like him.

“This is James, James Bond... and Mr. Bond these are my children...” She went into formalities. Asked a few questions. By this point most of them were bored, even Mycroft was staring into the trees out the window.

Q sat at the edge of his seat, shockingly poised and refined for an eight year old.

“So you were a navy commander.” Not a question, a statement, almost disbelieving. Bond senses this obviously and in front of a child lets his guard falter.

“Yes, I was. Have you ever met another officer besides your brother?” Figuring the child wouldn't remember his father. But with a photographic memory, of course Q could mildly remember his father, yet never in uniform.

“Many, and none have ever carried themselves as you do.” Spoken with an air of superiority that knocks the agent off his feet in this social structure. The Queen doesn't interrupt, not yet, but Sherlock has a quirked brow a mile high, Mary is picking her nose in a way she figures is discreet (she's five.)

Mycroft smirks out the window.

“And how do they carry themselves? If I may ask your highness.”

“Don't be trite with me. I'm eight, not two.”

Bond's mouth threatens to open in retort, but Q continues on.

“You walk like you're paid to. You kill people. MI5, MI6... those all seem quite plausible.” The child rambles, crossing his arms.

“A useful prior profession to have before a job like protecting our lives. Why do you want to work for the palace?” The fact that Bond didn't acknowledge any of those remarks, means his questions are answered in his book.

“Because I've lived all my life serving queen and country, why not _literally_ try?” A nonchalant air about the way he says it, but amusement rests in his gaze. Q is satisfied.

“You enjoy your job, Mr. Bond?” No emotion about it, a simple question from an eight year old.

“There are things I don't enjoy about it and yet--”

“Lying.”

Bond blinks a few times.

“Yes, I enjoy my job your highness.”

The grin that threatens to split the child's face is incomparable. But he says nothing further, just nods.

Sherlock nudges Q and gives him a certain look, Q ignores it and when his mother isn't looking gives him two fingers. Sherlock pinches him, Q whacks him hard, they sit properly when their mother walks into the room.

“Well dears?”

“I like him.” Q quipped. “Can I go back to my C++ lessons?”

 

 

He'd been sitting on his bed staring off into the black screen of his computer. A flurry of white code along the screen, he'd been working on a program to store specific types of data collected in his notes for exams. Exams that lead to his first Masters degree, and towards his goal of acquiring a PHD.

Here he was, lost in the past, mind reeling in memories that he never had forgotten. There were very few things he'd ever forget. Sometimes he'd have to force himself to, especially that lovely, literal, smack down, on the Yacht yesterday evening.

Q doesn't know if it's a terrible sad state of things, because the only person in the whole world that he could consider his truest and most complete friend. Was James Bond.

He could tell the man anything, and yes, sure, he's sworn an oath to protect him and all his secrets. But he sort of figures the man wouldn't tell anything to a soul despite the piece of paper forbidding it.

Supported by a pile of pillows, Q flops back after carefully closing his laptop and fixing his gaze on the elegantly embellished ceiling in pale red and gold lining.

Royal blue and copperish coating, lovely, familiar, but heavy on the senses and did nothing for the weight of memory and thought on the young princes' mind.

Filled with the thoughts of his agent, his, agent. He thinks that over and over again enthusiastically. Nothing could change that, except for perhaps death and he's thought about that at least billion times.

At first it was a reverence, child born, innocent. Bond was a proper guardian, protector. Never late, never bored, never unkind.

Then it was a little crush, 16, hormones, Q couldn't very well flirt with boys at school. He never became inappropriate and Bond may have been a bit sly.

But never, did he cross the line that Q would in his mind, in his heart.

At 17 and a half, Q knew he was desperately in love with the agent.

It wasn't just the smooth, suave air. Those Scottish rugged notes to his voice, good looks, or maturity.

No, it was more.

It's that true smile, that cunning, that hidden overwhelming intelligence; not smarter than Q in all senses. But with age and wisdom like a fine Italian wine, or an aged french cheese.

A proper pairing to his fresh heart, and yearning mind.

He's either hungry, or needs to stop reading romantic novels.

Probably both.

Looking down at his phone, he notices in all this time staring into nothing, he's received threexts.

The first one leaves a bitter taste on his tongue so he ignores it for the last; Bond.

 

_J. Bond7 to Q:_

 

_Dinner was canceled in the hall tonight. You need to eat a proper meal. I'll pick you up your usual sandwich tonight instead. Let me know if your plans have changed._

 

 

Q smirks, huffs a sigh all lovesick, ridiculous.

 

 

_Q to J.Bond7:_

 

_Chess tonight as well? I'm glad you think of my poor, dying, stomach. Bored and the outside world haunts me._

 

Five minutes later, the Prince is scrambling for his phone like a schoolgirl.

 

 

_J. Bond7 to Q:_

 

_You're far too skinny, and far too young to be thinking like that. Go take a walk, enjoy your spring and youth while you can._

 

 

_Q to Bond7:_

 

_You talk like an old man. You're not old._

 

 

_J.Bond7 to Q:_

 

_I'll be there at 7._

 

 

_Q to Bond7:_

 

_In that case, I'll be in my room at precisely 7:15. No earlier._

 

 

Bond doesn't respond to that, and Q groans at his stupid flirty, smitten behavior.

The next is a message from Mary;

 

_Mary to Q:_

 

_Hey! I'll be sleeping over at Peggy's tonight! Don’t miss me too much Xoxo_

 

Not so bad, the little message makes him smile and he replies with a 'have fun, xoxo.' Yeah he loves Mary, but she can be a tad overbearing sometimes.

The next message brings the smell of refuse in his mind, Sophitia.

 

_Sophitia to Q:_

 

_I was thinking a lot about last night._

_We have been dating for almost a year now, so when I walked in on all of that I freaked and said awful things. Terribly awful things._

 

_I'll be out at our spot at 5, I want to talk, to apologize. If you don't show up, I'll understand. I'll understand any sort of reaction just, lets round this off on a good note. As friends, especially for the sake of our positions._

 

 

No! He really really, truly, doesn't want to go see her. But its so eloquent and apologetic and sincere. Which makes him pissier than usual.

He grumbles, he stomps his feet against the bed in protest.

The last thing he wants to do, is go talk to her in any capacity; yet as an adult it boils in your chest to do something positive and fix things. But the child in him wants to reply with some snappy remark and make her suffer.

He'll take the higher route he supposes; sitting up straight and slowly, carefully, typing out a reply.

 

 

_Q to Sophitia:_

 

_Alright._

 

 

And inwardly he thinks, that if she smacks him again, he'll smack right back.

 

Hard as he can.

 

No second thoughts.

 


	3. Beautiful

“Mysterious star, thou wert my dream, all along summer night--- Be now my them! By this clear stream, Of thee will I write; Meantime from afar, Bathe me in light!”

 

Q reads, emotionally, with his heart in his throat not even trying. The garden is lovely, if not a lovely farewell to the crisp winter leaves. It's not too cold, not too hot, and not sunny.

It was as sunny as it got, the golden star shown its face at random, but the clouds covered its rays. Every so often, it would show and add streams of exuberance to the flowers that litter here and there in proper form of a royal garden.

A proper sign of spring.

His sister is very much obsessed with this garden.

Bond and Alec, also known as seven and six, stand ahead of them as their detail for the evening. Quiet, two saville row suited gentleman standing alert for the Crown Prince, the Queen, and the Princess of Denmark who lazily scrolls through her brand new jeweled up, iphone.

The latest one of course, and yes, these are real diamonds... aren't they divine?

She isn't paying attention, but his mother seems to say nothing about it, stirring her English breakfast and listening to Q with a smile on her face.

Little known to the Prince, Bond is smiling as well, the young man had such a way with words.

 

“Thy world has not the dross of ours, Yet all the beauty--- all the flowers that list our love, or deck our bowers in dreamy gardens, where do lie dreamy maidens all the day, While the silver winds of Circassy on violet couches faint away.”

 

“That is such a lovely poem, dear, is that Poe?” Says his mother, curiously, and Sophitia snickers.

“American literature...”

“You don't like it?” Not angry, but definitely interested in knowing why Sophitia doesn't prefer this. His mother was ever the curious kind.

“It's so... literal, and boring, and phony, and over dramatic. Not even in a comedic way... Poe is just so morbid.”

“I've read plenty of English, French, Danish literature even... but I quite like Poe.”

Q quips, nearly closes the book, but his mother rushes to place her tea on the saucer of fine china.

“Oh don't stop, I really was enjoying your reading...” She chuckles a little at her own excitement.

And that is why he loves his mother so terribly much, that the warmth blossoms in his chest, and only shows through the sunlight in his eyes. A brightness that the day lacks, yet witnessed in his evergreen pathways of sight.

 

“Little----oh! Little dwells in thee, like unto what on earth we see; beauty's eyes is here the bluest, in the falsest and untruest--- on the sweetest air doth float, the most sad and solemn note--- if with thee be broken hearts, Joy so peacefully departs, that it's echo still doth dwell, like the murmur in the shell, Thou! Thy truest type of grief, is the gently falling leaf-- Thou! Thy framing is so holy, Sorrow is not Melancholy.”

 

He finishes the poem and closes the book, “There, are you quite satisfied, mother?”

She nods a single little thing, “Of course dear, I told you I enjoy your reading... you could very well continue... couldn't he Sophitia?”

Sophitia seems stunned out of her _facebook_ reverie, “Ah, yes your majesty, of course.” A feigned sweet little grin.

The Queen gives a wary look at her son, who gives her a wearisome look that turns sheepish.

“It's quite alright, mother, if I may, I was going to retire to my room for the afternoon, I have an exam on Monday.” He doesn't stand until his mother gives him a positive answer. Understanding in her eyes, as she stands up and dabs her chin and lips with a napkin.

“Of course, Sophitia, I'll have Alec see you to your ride?”

The girl looks almost relieved, giving a thoughtful hug to the good Queen and a kiss for Q, who tries not to look discomfited in the contact.

She is not his favorite decision, but for his image a wiser one he believes. Tugging his bag, and book to his chest and along the hall towards his room.

He tries to pretend he can't hear seven, treading up behind him with polite haste.

 

“Why was _she_ here?”

Bond asks after Q, not angry, but very stern.

The prince, stops in his tracks and the agent waits patient as the garden for spring. Icy and foreboding.

“Its a mutual arrangement, based on formalities, image, and sheer stupidity and, it is none of your concern.” An edge of soft finality in his voice, but Bond refuses to take that as a proper answer, briskly walking over to stand directly behind him, close, unnerving.

“Forgive me, because I'm going to ignore that last explanation...Q...”

“Excuse me?” Q snaps, turning his head towards Bond.

Which obviously is unusual, unsettles his agent and immediately Q regrets his behavior, turning to face the ornate door ahead.

“Your highness, Princess Sophitia, attacked you, just four days ago and now you both carry on as if the assault never happened. It is very much my concern as your safety is in jeopardy.”

Q chuckles, hardly an affectionate sound. “Please, she's just a child with a long liven dream to be the Queen at my arm. Hurting me anymore than she has will ruin her foolish desire for the throne. Which, she will not have.”

“ _Of course_ , your highness, I know your _type_ , and it isn't the _fairer_ sex. You don't have to explain your sexual _preferences_ to me.” Seemingly a harmless sentiment, but the harsh, cutting way it leaves the agents mouth is not lost on Q.

Who turns towards Bond, anger in his eyes but nowhere else, opening to speak.

Bond falters.

“That was, out of place, your highness.” The tight and drawn way he says that, is hardly an apology.

Q looks away, biting on the inside of his mouth; a vision of disdain.

He shoves his book into Bonds arms, along with his bag, a silent yet fearsome order, before striding off quickly and unceremoniously to the library. Wanting to be anywhere but around people, anywhere but here.

Perhaps thousands of miles away, sitting in the biggest library in the world and reading the histories, sciences of man long before him. Dreaming away in the ideas of philosophers, and astronomers. Male and female, it didn't matter, Q would read it.

Bond stood in the hallway even long after Q had retreated.

Closing his eyes and cursing himself, he looks to the book in his hands.

It wasn't Edgar Allan Poe, it was a chemistry book with a black biding, so he flips through, and there's no writing of any sort. No Poe in the glossary.

The agent feels forlorn already, smiles sadly.

Genius boy, brilliant genius boy-- no, a man, who recites Poe from heart, and sonnets with memory.

Immediately James Bond knows he should apologize, of course, he also knew interrupting Q right now with anything would be at the very least ill advised.

 

 

When Q arrives back at his room, his book and bag are settled politely on his desk. His room is warm, and a knock sounds.

“Come in.”

It's his organizer, a media worker, almost an agent, but dealing with a lot more intelligence and political strategy.

Moneypenny enters with a kettle, and his favorite bedtime tea of jasmine and sugar pearls.

“Quincy?” She says softly.

Ah, that’s right, this is his typical time to retire for the day and he nearly forgot his own ridiculous schedule.

“Yes Eve, I'm alright, don't--”

“Far from it, seven looks like a poor little kicked puppy.” An endearing little note, and Q frowns deeply, a look of disbelief on his features.

“Oh alright, a kicked little wolf puppy.”

Thinking it over, Q could perhaps agree to that.

“Whats wrong?”

“Don't act like you cant fathom what, you guys had a bit of a spat again. I know it.”

“How could you possibly know...”

“The two of you are quite a pair, both of you have such similar little expressions. Pathetic really.”

“Eve...” A warning sound, but more exhausted than anything. She takes that as her cue to start pouring the tea, adding his sugar as usual, handing him the cup and saucer.

“Q.”

He can't get mad at anyone who gives him a cuppa, not ever, so he sighs and takes in the relaxing scent. Sitting on the edge of his bed, criss-cross and exhausted. Emotionally. Stressed and annoyed at the same time. How frustrating is this?

How emotionally tangled he gets when it comes to Bond. How strangled and unsettled it seems. Emotions were so easy for Q, and then they weren't.

He kept them close to his chest, and only let the ones on his wrists show. And in way of survival, he kept the most important ones as far away from reality as he possibly could.

“Thank you, Ms. Moneypenny.” He quips, airy voice filled with the steam of hot tea.

“Your welcome darling, now tell me, what did he do this time?” Getting comfy right next to Q without even asking. It doesn't annoy him, it did once, but now its nice, he smiles around a sip of tea shakes his head cause he doesn't want to laugh with a mouthful.

He's done that once.

It was a complete disaster.

A mess.

And he had the hiccups or an hour through a damn procession.

He'll never forgive Bond for that...

That, is a story to go through on another day.

Right now, Q places the half finished cup on his bedside table.

“It's nothing I can't handle Eve, truly, a bit of a spat and I assure you Bond meant no harm...”

Both of them nearly lose their skins, Eve squeaks, Q jumps, because Bond appears before them all straightened out and pressed suit, earpiece, casual stance. They only noticed when he cleared his throat.

“What the hell!” Eve gasps, pressing her hand to her bosom, smiling however despite the scare.

“Ditto, Mr. Bond, what _are_ you doing in here? I didn't hear a knock...” A little stern for the crooked grin he wears.

“The door was open, Moneypenny should know to close the door properly.” Sly, and probably bullshit yet neither of them could tell.

“Well, this is my cue then, hug it out, make up, I don't want frowns on either of your faces next time I see you. Either of you.” Straightening out her cream blouse, paired with a forest hued argyle pencil skirt.

Remarkable woman, and he'd probably be smitten if he had that capacity for the _fairer sex_ , as bond put so ruthlessly.

“Mr. Bond?” Q questions when he hears the door shut firmly in place.

“Q.”

They share silence, staring at anything but each other for a moment, until Bond decides to sit beside the Prince; who is only alerted to this by the weight beside him.

Immediately Q feels heat rise to his cheeks, can feel the warmth of Bond, the smell of expensive cologne and aftershave mixed with, just, _James Bond_.

Protection, safety, warmth, strength.

Since day one, he admires, closing his eyes in the memory of countenance and how crazy these feelings have developed and evolved into something he never wanted, now a desperate desire squeezing in his solar plexus.

 

“I'm sorry, Q.”

Is how it starts off, a relaxed and apologetic note. The prince didn't know how to answer, was too deep in thought to answer anything that wasn't vague at least. Grabbing his tea, he takes a deep breath to bask in the scent and clear his head.

Unaware of the storm that brews beside him, uncertain and sad.

“Q...”

The sort of, kind of, broken tone knocks him out of his moment.

“Shit, Bond I'm not angry with you. I haven't really been since the argument itself... it was just a blown out of proportion, fuss, you didn't do anything but state the obvious. And, you are my friend as well as my body guard, you know I could never be petty and hold your honesty against you. Actually, I rather prefer your honesty than bullshit. Everyone else likes to serve me their shit, on a silver spoon.”

Bond, oh my god, the smile on the mans face, however slight, irregular, just, the rarest sight.

Q's heart is a mess in his chest.

“I suppose someone has to knock you from your pedestal.”

“Oh? And I suppose it will have to be you?”

“Obviously.”

“You're insufferable.”

“Ditto.”

Q laughs, that full fluttery sound again, which changes Bonds expression for a moment, and worries the Prince, and only a little, still...

It's almost serious a moment, too serious, stuffy, Q doesn't understand.

Until his face is met with the proper side of a pillow and his glasses go flying off his face.

“What the hell! What are you? Five?!”

“Not at all, you know my age, I could be your bloody father...” Bond intones dryly, Q scrambles to grab another of his many down-pillows. Toss it into bonds head with a whump.

“Oh hell no, you're nothing like my father, and you are the furthest thing from a father figure. You hated my school days...”

“Children are awful.” Bond intones again, dodging another failed pillow strike. Mischievous playfulness in perfect blue windows to the soul.

Windows no doubt frosted over and impossible to peer through; nothing but shadows lie behind them.

“You never hated me!” Q says a bit breathlessly, man he's seriously out of shape. Grabbing another pillow and guarding with it, as Bond relentlessly whacks him around the room. All he has in this battle of wits and bedding, are his coltish legs of speed.

Sprinting across the room, dodging the onslaught here and there. Laughing so hard he can barely take it.

“That’s because you hardly behaved like one; really? A microscope, a computer, and a calligraphy kit, were on your Christmas list at the age of nine...”

“You remember my sodding Christmas list of nine years ago?” Q laughs, disbelief and humor all let out before the agent without guard.

Bond thinks it over for a moment, that, that is kind of peculiar isn't it?

“I take that back, you're definitely a father figure...”

Bond squints, trying to see the joke there, and there it is, Q is messing with him again.

“Oh come here you...”

“No...”

“Don't worry, I shan't kill you.”

“Nope!” Dodging, dodging, dodging.

With one solid smack of the pillow, Q thuds to the floor right on his arse. Looking dazed and confused, breathless, red in the face.

Feathers, white and soft fluttering around the room like snow. The corpse of the poor standard issue pillow still in Bonds hands, as he watches Q.

His first thought?

_Beautiful._

Little did he know, after sharing deep laughs and jokes about behaving like children. Between a talk about class on Monday, and how Q would obviously do well on the test.

At that very same moment, Q through blurry emerald eyes thought the same thing of the agents tense and inspiring silhouette.

 

_Beautiful._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The work is "Mysterious Star" by Edgar Allan Poe. :) And I do not own the rights to it. (But I love it dearly)


	4. Reflection

“Oh good, you're down by two, this can only get more interesting.” Bond remarks at the telly as great Britain loses the ball and China scores, again. It's just like him to do this on his day off, sit around, and do absolutely nothing in his expensive briefs, socks, and a fresh crew neck.

Taking breaks between the telly, and pressing his suits.

A lovely Sunday of drinking piss Belgium beer, switching between footy and the news here and there.

Not that he hasn't a better source through wiser means, but its fun to see what the mass population is being fed on a regular basis. Nearly burning himself when he see's the royal family on T.V. and Bond is distantly in the cut. Q, Quincey, is standing there looking poised and intelligent but not in the least haughty as one would imagine.

If anything its almost as if he's out of place, no dapper charming look like his mother, Mary, and Mycroft pull off in a cinch.

Sherlock isn't there, of course, he never is anymore unless its a holiday or something important.

The agent rubs his chin thoughtfully, and then in a moments thought realizes he needs to shave. When a knock makes him lose that train almost completely, checking the peep hole, sighing.

Really, not enough beer in the world for this, he takes a moment to look forlorn, then opens the door with a blank look, expectant in his stance.

“Alec.”

“Bond, how lovely to see you still have balls.”

“Alec...” A warning tone.

“Ta-da!” Pulling out a sixer of Heineken and wiggling it a bit.

Changes Bond's note completely, “Come in then, leave your trainers at the door.”

“Love the knee socks.” Alec jokes, shelving off his shoes, putting the six pack in the fridge and reaching for an already cold one. It's the last one so Bond takes it out of his hands and opens it with his thumb and forefinger, delving into it like he's dying of thirst.

Alec pouts, watching Bond walk back into the living room and turn back to footy. Switching from Q and the Queen, to football in seconds.

“How typical.”

“You act as if you're surprised.”

“You act as if you haven't been laid in weeks.”

Bond doesn't respond to that.

“Oh my god, it's been a week?”

“Alec...”

“Two weeks?!”

“...”

Bond takes another sip and exhales, refreshed.

“Oh my god... you poor fuck, no wonder your on edge!”

“Shut up, unless you're going to do something about it... it's not on list of topics for the evening.”

“Oh my _god,_ you've started categorizing topics for conversation. Someone contact MI6, the guard, anyone... this is fucking amazing!” 

Bond 's  silence is his cue, Alec strips o f f the tight fitting expensive black jumper, the gray slacks, the nice cotton-y socks onto the floor. 

Down to  charcoal boxer briefs. 

Bond had been standing there, back towards him, legs apart, watching the telly and ignoring him completely until he hears the gentle slip of clothes as they hit the floor.

He finishes his bottle never the less, places it on the coffee table with a clank. His sparsely decorated flat, an echoing reminder of how he prefers to live, and prefers to appear.

Empty.

“Did I catch your attention?” Alec doesn't loose his cockiness, even though Bond doesn't look at him. Walking around the beer-driven man, only to plop onto the couch backwards. Propping up a little and letting his taut, lean, body spread out on the sofa.

“Would it hurt your feelings if I said you didn't?”

“No, but perhaps my ego, if you turn me down, I might just cry.” Sarcasm with as smile, such cheek from a man who plays it so cool at the palace.

Standing over Alec, as if he doesn't quite know what to do with him which creates a silent atmosphere of uncertainty. The man lovingly refereed to as 'six' had no idea what would happen next and that was saying something, for a man who was trained all his life to know exactly that.

Bond turns swiftly and exits the room.

Alec's shining smile dampens, and he slumps into the squishy sofa.

“Seven?” He calls, weakly. Rolling his eyes, rubbing his cheek, feeling slapped without having a hand laid on him.

He stands to make for his clothes, but Bond shows up, a svelte black bottle in one hand, and a little metallic square in the other.

“Going somewhere?”

Seven, has a smirk somewhere between cheeky and dangerous, Alec doesn't know which inflection makes him hotter in the pants.

“Ah-- no-- I just thought--”

“Well, stop doing that, dangerous thing that mind of yours.”

“If you insist...” Finding his footing in this situation was becoming harder and harder, no pun intended.

“I don’t insist anything.” Bond places the bottle beside the couch and slides over Alec like a lion on his slaughtered prey.

He's got their hips aligned, which has Alec squirming automatically.

“I'm telling you. Stop thinking.” Dark and decadent in the younger mans ear, almost a purr. Alec's lip quivers, and he's no /boy./ 36 years old. Left the force early due to a bad shrapnel wound to the chest; Bond was 10 years his senior, and it hardly showed except for perhaps the dusting of white hair on this Scottish sex pistol.

“S-shit.”

A chuckle from Bond, who tosses his shirt to the floor, then lunges in like a mountain lion; Mouth lavishing and thorough in its cause. A journey over the young mans neck, he tucked the condom in his underwear when Alec wasn't looking.

“If only the crown knew that this demon guards its halls...” Alec moans, as rough hands hold him down into place while strong hips work into him. Proper underwear clad frottage, until it isn't, when Bond uses his teeth to remove them.

He'd never take advantage of his position at the palace with his... skills.

There was no way... but he's not at work right now, and Alec is far from royalty.

Hand at Alec's cock, the other pinning down his hips as if trying to keep a pesky dog, still.

“That sounds a lot like your thinking.” He growls, spitting on his hand and slipping up and down the younger mans shaft, quick and thorough.

“Fuck-fuck-fuck-- ah!” Alec tries to stop moving, but it's so achingly good, so divine.

“That's the idea.” Bond quips, grabbing the lube seemingly out of nowhere. Started to get everything nice and wet. Even warming it up with his hands first before laving it over his cock, his balls, his perineum and entrance with insane practice and ability. Alec's head spins.

They've done this before, loads of times.

But it had been awhile, even if Alec knew of no such thing as a dry spell. Young dumb and in his prime of course.

“Ah!”

Normally he isn't even this vocal, but, to hell with standards, right?

Before he knows it, with just the stroking of Bonds hand, the other pressing and teasing against his hole. A tongue in the dip of his hips and to his nipples, the collar bone. Ravaging nerves, with teeth and wet slippery sucking, precise little flicks along his scar on his side and pectorals.

“Shit-shit- Bond- fuck!” he gasps, eyes shooting open as he climaxes and suddenly one finger becomes two, and then two is three as he's stretched properly, a bit of pain but nothing he can't handle.

Blissed out and sensitive, staring into the ceiling, as his coworker fucks him so hard his legs start to spread with the force of it.

Bond lifts his legs up and past his shoulders and drives him into the couch like a fucking champ. A properly thick and slightly above average length; has him panting, still hard, but there would be no way to climax again. No, Bond takes his time with him.

In his years his stamina improved, and he kept it this way on purpose. Edging was his specialty of course.

“Still trying to think?”

“Mnnn--”

“That's what I thought.” Bond says as his face changes from one of steel will and determination, to a sort of pained look. Pulling out, whipping off the condom which Alec double takes with his eyes.

When did he put that on?

And yet he doesn't have much time to wonder, as a warm load of semen starts to coat his chest, a bit on his neck, chin, but most of it sits in a puddle on his groin with his own mess.

It's not a terrible amount, but enough to make him feel wrecked, used, and worthless underneath the older man.

Panting, both of them, Bond gets up wrestles for his smokes in his slacks that he laid over the single dining chair. Lighting up.

“You want one?”

Alec lifts a hand in response, fingers spread as if that were an answer.

Apparently it's enough, because he gets a cigarette, and a light, out of Bond.

He hums happily.

“Feel better?” Muffled a bit with the tobacco between his lips.

Bond hums in the positive. “Definitely.”

“Beer and the rest of the game?”

“Games over now.”

“I'll settle for reruns.”

“Good, cause that was the plan.”

They sit in their pants after cleaning up, smoking, drinking, bickering back and forth. Eventually on about one suspicious maid at Windsor who pisses them both off to no end apparently with how she behaves around Mary. Like she's a mother figure, but clearly she's not in need for one.

“So I told the bitch; Her majesty dictates when Mary can and cannot attend parties, and who she can see at them. Not you.” Alec flicks his ashes into the tray on the coffee table. The condom wrapper still sits there as a little reminder.

If the glow and the relaxation in their bones wasn't enough already.

“Civilians just don't understand.” Bond mentions, sighing. “They don't get that their emotional attachment, ego, whatever it is, can send them into chaos and unprofessional displays. It's highly embarrassing to watch from a distance.” The agent is just talking like normal, but Alec spares a look of disbelief, which Bond only catches last minute.

“What?” Seven's brows purse confusedly.

“Nothing...” Alec chuckles a little.

“No, I don’t want that trite snide little 'I know something and he doesn't, ta!' shite, talk to me.”

“His royal highness? The prince? Where are you emotionally there? Exactly?” As if being facetious and its working on pissing Bond right off.

“I don’t figure what you mean.” Dark and defensive tone.

“Oh of course you don’t, because Bond you talk about him like he's your best friend. In fact, your only friend besides maybe me, and her majesty, and while being friendly is just fine. Don't tell me, don't tell me for a damn second that you wouldn't be a royal mess if anything were to happen to him.” Alec scolds, then takes a sip of beer realizing he probably spoke too much.

“Alec, how long ago did you join up for the palace?”

Choking, almost, on his beverage Alec coughs.

“Two-- two years, why?”

“I've been at their side, I've been here at the palace for ten years. This is my life’s mission, my job, I'm passionate. Yes. But compromised. No.”

“Alright, alright, hey, no need to be defensive... but seriously, you do get along with Quincy.”

“He's intelligent, and can talk about something other than the mundane.”

“That, I admit, has to be an upgrade to our workplace. It's too bad he doesn't like me.”

“He doesn't dislike you...” Bond looks Alec up and down.

“No, but when I'm assigned to him instead of you, it looks like someone kicked his puppy...”

“He doesn't have a puppy, he has two cats.” Bond intones.

Alec laughs, “Of course, that, yes, I knew that.”

“Shut up, Six.”

“I'm leaving.”

“Good.”

“Night.”

Bond hums his goodbye, takes a long chug, and reflects.

He's never much liked reflecting. Whether in the mirror, or with himself; even if he knows he's a handsome man and can get what he wants, when he wants.

It's never stopped being difficult after all this time.

 

 

“John!” Sherlock's head is bent into the fridge.

“John!” Expectantly, Q is studying something on the kitchen table with a magnifying glass. It's a particle of dust from thousands of years ago, really cool, interesting what you can find with a microscope and some hydrating techniques.

He doesn't raise his head at all while Sherlock wails from across the room.

“Joooohn!”

John bolts out of the bathroom with a half shaven face. “What the hell is your problem!?” Obviously not up for Sheryls bullshit.

Q smirks, secretly, he enjoys their little bits of domesticity and bickering. It's nonstop of course but every so often they share this look and Q can't be angry at Sherlock any more for abdicating.

He daydreams of a world where Bond would look at him in this same way. If only for a moment a day, a month, a year. Life would be good.

Which, he moves up and shakes his head, looks confused about everything.

Is impossible.

The man is straight, been married three times now all affectionately nicknamed and ex'd out to Q's liking.

Not that he's happy bond had suffered, but happy that the man is no longer in the palms of those using, abusing, criminals.

One of whom, was caught embezzling funds from the crown and was brought swift justice. Although, dragging bond down into a huge scandal and investigation that almost cost the man his job and _life._

It was one thing being an arse, another being a criminal and breaking hearts in your path.

Q was happy to help bring justice into the situation, with enough evidence to put her behind bars for life; although, she committed suicide before any actual justice could be served.

A very dark and traumatic time in Bonds life.

The Queen hadn't the heart to permanently dismiss him.

Q would always admire her for this.

“Hello, earth to Qwerty...”

Sherlock sings, and Q snaps out of his thought process. Dull and pathetic thought process.

“Ah-- shit, it's half past four. I love you, both of you, but I've got to see Sophitia or she'll have my head.” Q packs his laptop, hurries to the 'usual' spot, as per, usual.

Leaving with a wave, and a digestive in his trap. The door slams behind him.

“Did he just say that he loves us?”

John walks in, face shaved but covered in bits of cream still, picking up Sherlock's cup of coffee, drinking deeply.

 

“Yes, I do believe he did.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alec? 006? I totally think of him as Michael Fassbender... totes. Also, Alec is American so... yeah. -skips-


	5. Deceitful

He's lazily sipping on the last beer now, pleasantly drunk, not too-drunk. Not so-hammered-I can-hardly-walk drunk.

It's, 'I can barely feel my lips, but my feet are okay and I can walk alright if I concentrate.' He's not really concentrating on anything to be honest. Staring idly until he hears his phone vibrate on the table, the sound slightly jarring.

With a frown, he lifts to see it's an unfamiliar number and clicks on the text message.

 

_Seven, this is Stephen._

 

_I just want you to know, I'm at the park._

 

_I didn't want to have anything to do with this. I'm sorry._

 

Stephen?

Stephen, Stephen...

Bond nearly drops his phone.

Oh _shit._

He gets dressed in jeans, a jumper, a peacoat, attaches his earpiece.

Slips his gun into his inner pocket, all in a flash as he makes his way for the park. Having to call a taxi, and once he pulls up he throws twice the amount of money necessary.

“Stay here or I'll have you arrested for treason.”

Voice like knives at the driver, who nods hurriedly, and begins to park the car. Bond could be very persuasive especially in times like these.

Hurrying up past the entry way, the winding stoney garden paths are his enemy. Barely lit nature and bushes where anyone could jump in for a surprise. Not his favorite thing, period.

From quite a distance he see's the 'spot' as Sophitia would mention affectionately.

Stephen is reaching forward, holding Q's face; a face that Bond can't see and at this distance he can't endanger the Prince with a gunshot. The movement is... harmless.

Stephen is kissing Q, its deep, passionate.

Something fiddles in his chest, and then here it is.

Flashes of light.

_Cameras._

“Shit.” Bond hisses, shoving his gun back into his coat nonchalantly. Running towards the couple in desperation.

Q seems side swiped. Pictures in a flurry, news, media, papers, four or five reporters who all snapped away at the sight of Q openly snogging another man.

Stephen, is already backing off and hurrying away, apology and horror on his face; Q looks outright shocked as if assaulted.

Which this rather was, a breech, an assault on the crown that Bond was taking very, very, seriously.

“Your highness!” Bond calls, Q's legs shaking as the agent is quick to form a bodily blockade and hide the prince from the relentless flashing of light.

“Come along, the taxi on our left, new plates, I'm taking you home.” Bond mutters, the reporters start to scurry away as Bond leads the shaking Prince back to the taxi cab, who drives without a peep to the palace. Probably figuring out the most of it in the time that's passed.

“Why the hell is there no security detail with you?”

Q looks shocked, and openly so, the agent realizes he'll most likely get nothing intelligible right now.

“Are you hurt?”

Q shakes his head, laying back into the seat, staring dead ahead.

Bond is the furthest thing from happy, but they're close enough to the palace that he doesn't say anything, as he feels saying anything right now would just be embarrassing and out of line.

Once they're filing into the side door, he grabs his phone and starts to alert security and Miss Moneypenny of the media issue at hand. The security hall is bustling within minutes, as the Queen shows up in her pajamas and a lovely cotton robe to talk with the staff.

Q is settled in a quiet little room to the side with a cup of tea, a blanket, curtains drawn and security out the window and by the door.

 

 

“You smell like alcohol.” The queen looks sharply at Bond who nods.

“We took a cab, but I got this text just 17 minutes before the situation itself...” Pulling Q's phone out of his other pocket. “His highness got this message just minutes before I got Stephens'.”

“Why would Stephen do this?”

“Blackmail, I suspect.” Bond mutters lowly, the Queen nods minutely as she curls her robe closer. That feeling, the feeling of your family being violated in such a way.

“Alright, I want this clean and simple. His highness went out with a friend from school, paparazzi were stalking and intentionally harassing. Any questions on his sexuality will be ignored, any topics about Sophitia will be ignored, this is an ongoing investigation. Sophitia, Princess of Denmark is here by officially banned from the palace. A restraining order should be filed, I don’t want any remarks to my son, Quincy, who is no doubt going through the worst of this...” Moneypenny is the front woman on the issue.

“Yes your highness.” She answers for the lot of them and all of them look at Moneypenny as if she is the messenger for their cause.

Queen Olivia turns to Bond and sighs, deeply.

“You, come with me. We're going to have a proper chat.”

She turns, and there's nothing the agent can do but answer with respect and follow as ordered.

It's a long quiet trip across the palace halls, and towards the kitchens, where a single maid stood propped up in pajamas eating ice cream, and sat on the phone talking lowly.

Though once she see's the queen she perks up, smiles sheepishly, leaving the room. Olivia wasn't cruel, she realized her staff were human and did all the things humans did and as long as her own safety and privacy were held in tact. No harm no foul.

Another deep sigh, seemed to be the appropriate title for the late night as the Queen rummaged for the cereal and began making herself a bowl. Her night time go-to, a sheepish look at Bond.

“I know my son, Mr. Bond. He doesn't like to talk to me about his personal life, period, but that, is what you get for being Royalty and told to hide everything from the day you were able to say 'mummy' and 'daddy.'” Looking forlorn at the thought.

“This isn't easy, this life is the furthest from easy. Expectations, crowds, public opinions, parliament opinions, and yes there are good things to come of it. But I fear the brunt end of a very stressful situation is upon his shoulders and frighteningly so.”

Bond stands there watching as she crunches through the corn flakes, still with proper manners, which seats a bit of humor in his eyes for a moment.

“You knew of his...”

“Preferences, yes, of course I did. I knew the moment he shied away from all the girls at every gala and stared at the king of Bhutan for an inordinate amount of time... I just knew.”

Acceptable answer, Bond looks to the floor.

“I haven't told you everything.”

She stops eating, concern in her pursed brows.

“The night after his highness' birthday, the party on the yacht... he and Stephen...”

The Queen nods, “I understand but--”

“Sophitia found them, she grew upset, she physically assaulted his highness.” Bond admits, but no longer eyes to the ground. In fact he's respectfully looking her in the face.

“He asked me, pleaded not to tell. She left no marks on him, and I escorted her off the premises. The very next day he's having tea with the both of you... I assure you, I wasn't pleased.”

The Queen had stopped eating by now, presses her bowl away with disdain.

“I'm very disappointed, Seven, that this was not brought to my attention earlier.” Soft, tired, not angry, just tired.

Bond nods, “I submit myself to any disciplinary action necessary. I willingly held this information, and it was careless, it won't happen again.”

Letting out a reluctant breath, the Queen takes in the agent.

“Oh you will, you'll do it again, I'm sure but...” Heartbroken look on her face.

“I love my son, I love all my children of course but Quincy... he's.”

“Mysterious Star.”

She smiles slowly, nodding gratefully.

“Exactly, and I don’t know what to do sometimes. As a parent I try to do the best I can and as Queen there is only so much I can do. You used your discretion, you weren't a simple robot reporting his whereabouts. You care for him as I do, if not just as much.”

He can't help but feel surprised, but says nothing, lets the Queen continue.

“You didn’t have to check in on him, if I had received that same text in the night I would be scared, and worried, and I wouldn't have even known where to start. Your day off, and you found him and brought him safely to me. That, in the end of the day, is all a mother can ask for.”

“You are no ordinary mother, your majesty.”

“You're right, and as Queen, I should give you a proper punishment.”

She doesn't sound terribly serious, Bond tilts his head minutely.

“Go to Quincy. Go and sooth the wounds that the lord God knows I can't mend. My presence will only stress him out... as you can imagine.”

Quincy hadn't formally outed himself to his mother yet, Bond knew the interaction would only be a sad, sorry, little get together.

“Yes your majesty.” Bond quips, but before he can go.

“Wait.”

He stops, the Queen presses a little button on the electric kettle.

“Don't forget the tea.”

They both laugh, because of course, of course the tea.

 

 

The poor Prince had been escorted to his room shortly after the Queen and Seven had left for the kitchens. Moneypenny took proper care of settling down his favorite pajamas, tried to talk to him, but to no avail.

Q ignored any and all advice, sat at the edge of his bed, and stared off into the distance like a ghost. He was pale as the dead, lips red and chapped, disheveled in the clothes he'd been wearing all day.

When Bond shows up instead of his mother, shame hits him hard for being grateful that it wasn't the Queen. Looking at her right now would be...

Quincy gazes up at Bond, who looks a little like a scolding parent at first, then shifts his eyes, pouring Q a proper cuppa of jasmine.

“Shit awful mess we have, Q.”

“Indeed.”

“Shall we go with Plan A?” Bond doesn't look at him, but sits down beside him fixing his jumper sleeves. Forgetting where his coat may be since Q had been wearing it as 'protection' earlier.

“Plan A, Seven?”

“Well, I have a list, but I'm wondering what you'll do about all this.”

Looking depleted, he hums over a few sips of tea.

“I don’t know if I want to face school tomorrow.”

“So you're going to hide then?”

“What else do you suppose I do? My whole image, my mothers image, all on the line... school will be brutal. Torture even.”

“What, so do you feel guilty for who you are? Ashamed of who you are, Q?” A biting edge to Bonds voice, fingers squeezing into his own thighs.

Q watches those big hands, tense up, then stares ahead.

“No.” Shaking his head in the negative. “No I've never been ashamed of that, no, not at all.”

“Then why would you hide?”

Reality comes crashing down, Q realizes the error in his judgment, Bond carries on.

“You've kissed Stephen before, you've done well, a whole lot more than that. But you always do it in hiding, always behind a closed door. Q, if there is anything to be ashamed of, it's that, and doing it behind Sophitia's back... even if she deserves jail time for her misgivings.”

The Prince takes a deep shivering breath.

“What do I-- how--”

“You go to school tomorrow in your best, you keep your chin held high, you look your enemies in the eye and smile. Keep poised, keep the crown at its glory, and when they laugh, you laugh with them like it's all a silly little joke. And you move on, because you are not some simple boy. You aren't a child, you, are Quincy, the Prince, and you've got a Queen mother and country to stand for.”

Such dedication in the voice of someone he never thought would understand. At first anyway, and it almost seems as if the man does, which gains too many questions and not enough answers.

“You've dealt with this before.”

Bond nods once, weakly, then shrugs his head again a few times thoughtfully.

Standing up to straighten his jumper once more.

“I've have three wives, more lovers than that; Marriage between same sex individuals is a very, very, recent thing, Quincy.”

Revelation in the young mans eyes.

“I'm surprised you didn't know.”

Q looks completely stunned now.

“I've had just as many male partners as female, the word for it? Well growing up it was 'whore' but now I'm certain I'm a ruddy bisexual.”

Staring blankly up at Bond, no joke there, no lies, this was under his nose this whole time.

“I see.”

Bond can hardly hold back the slight little half smirk, looking at his watch.

“Seems it is late, your highness, and you do have school in the morning?”

It's interesting to see Q so completely speechless, but a smile draws true and complete on the younger mans face. And that, the agent thinks smugly as he leaves his room with a quick goodnight, is what gives this situation any bit of hope.

Now, all that the Prince has to do, is remain vigilant and strong in the face of all the wicked that might unfold.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading! But reviews are my favorite thing, so RnR and I'll be the most grateful. This is my first 00Q fic, so have mercy! I hope you enjoy!


	6. Ambition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Time Stamp-- Three years later--

 

Q messes with a little gold ring on his right ring finger. It belonged to his father, and it was granted to him the day he formally told his mother he fully intended on taking all responsibilities to the crown and for his country. That he would succeed when she were to step down, or die, he would not falter or leave.

With tears in her eyes, she gave him her late husbands wedding band, her only son not to step down from the line. Proud didn’t even cover it.

That was three days after his 20th birthday.

The Queen pulled through for Quincy, the Church had a bit of a heyday, parliament seemed to give two shits less although the conservative side tended to mock the news that came out in a tizzy. Claiming that it was somehow a way to push the secular agenda onto the majority. A hoax if you would.

Yet nothing else could be further from the truth.

The people seemed all riled up, it was the talk of everyone, different countries, royalty lines, curious as to what the Queen would say, what they would do.

Outcry, outrage, and curiosity in all flavors.

She was vigilant.

Olivia stood up for her son, she expressed that her son is who he is and she'd allow nothing to try and change that.

It was a victory, it was history.

Q wrote a book, titled of course “Q”

And inside, (which was another huge deal, scandalous of course)

 

**Q U E E R**

_Idly I'd chat up with my school mates, team work was essential in any sort of fashion when it came to the sciences. I'd simply garner it into a direction that would further exemplify the most fortuitous and accurate results. The best leader was chosen, which was not always me. Taking the role in leadership, while considered the heroic option is not always the most advantageous._

_For one this is clear, when you are a very queer, very atypical sort no one wants to hear that you are going to be the one to guide them. If anything their first defense mechanism is to point out where I place my affections. Surely I don't judge you for your large selection of avante garde hats, or peculiar choice in socks made of three separate fabrics I assure you._

_Furthermore, on top of which, who desires to accumulate all the responsibilities a title of leadership dictates. No one, the answer is no one but power hungry and the desperate for attention spewed all over them like the half meant prayers of a child loving bishop. No, I say that without also explaining that many people who long for the 'spoils' of royalty, pun intended, haven't the slightest idea what they've asked for._

_In all regards, I'd not change it, I cant change it. I figure wishing for any other life would be illogical. None is to come for me. Before or after is circumstantial, subjective, and festering over the beliefs of church is not the set of mind for me._

_No, I am a scientist. But there is one thing that I hold in the same instance as the Queen. An undying love for my country, its military, its scientists, artists, collectively; its people. And the only goals I have are for positive and developed outcomes._

_Hopefully, I won't have to rule for some time, hopefully my mother lives to the ripest age of the century and only my sisters children will have a weight of a monarchy. Future children, of course._

_Not that I continuously write off the idea of having my own, yet given the state of things. A royal blooded heir, is not on the menu by my part. So can we stop talking about whats in my pants and what I do with whats in my pants?_

_Good, so that's settled than better than an entire book about my sexuality yes? Is that why you bought this giant waste of paper? Then I suggest you close it now, as the rest will be about who I really am as a person and where I devote the most of time._

_Education, the arts, the sciences...._

 

 

Obviously it went outrageously well, with a small exclusion of creative religious bigots on all sides of the spectrum. But Q went and did charity work, starting that summer of his 18th year alive on this planet.

At a total of three Pride celebrations, he was grand marshal only missing any of the others due to other official obligations. Q became a huge defender of civil rights, gay rights, transgender rights even. Then to education, to helping schools and most importantly LGBT spectrum students.

Eye opening, enlightening, and educational in ways he never could have imagined.

Q grows up in more ways than one, a new type of maturity, physical and mental. A solid 5”9”, a bit of bulk to his shoulders, (a little at least, he's still a skinny fellow.)

Hair still a mess of curls, although he trims it regularly for public opinion if anything.

Women still love him, men like that he has spunk, and everyone in between could go eat a cock.

Nevertheless, people still argued all the time about how Q should step down for his charming sister Mary. Both his sister and mother think its preposterous and always turn that sort of talk on its head.

He's done work for MI5 and it's been on the news, a real jewel in the crown of her majesty and really at a certain point, a perfect young age of 21, is when things start to get really interesting.

With his first Masters degree in computer sciences under his belt in the spring of his 18th year, he's quickly coming up on his first PHD.

21.

A prodigy if anything.

He does a few lectures at Cambridge, at UCL, and of course Oxford.

Coming back to Windsor finally after a year visit around the globe.

He gets home in a sharp chestnut herringbone Harris Tweed wool three piece suit, a blue shirt underneath, and a lovely burgundy tie. His leather blue and brown messenger bag with the straps and the worn vintage look.

A true sight of well dressed royalty, with a splash of his personality.

Almost excited to be home, as Bond and his mother greet him; a servant to open his door, his very favorite body guard here at home.

Tempted to run up and hug Bond, but not a good idea in the public eye. Now, people would talk, if they already weren't already doing so.

“Mother.” He greets, kissing each cheek and hugging her tight. “How are you...” They wave at the camera's, then tarry on inside for the tea room.

“I'm good dear, you look excellent, you've been eating more?”

Q laughs that floaty little thing as Bond follows them around the corner dutifully.

“Yes, actually, everyone is always throwing food at my face at all these interviews and meetings, I couldn't very well turn them down. The best diplomacy, is gratitude, to many.” He explains, and his mother looks more than impressed. Almost a little wistful a moment as they sit for tea.

“Whats the look for?” He queries, unbuttoning his waist coat a bit before sitting down.

“You're just so grown up.”

“Oh for pity's sake, one minute it's 'grow up Quincy' and the next its 'growing too fast Quincy.'” He retorts with a huff, tea is served.

No one ever actually told him to grow up, maybe Bond once upon a time but... he thought all children were awful.

“Where's Mary? Mycroft?” Already splitting up a scone for a smudge of clotted cream and a large smear of jam.

“Well Mycroft is in the northern most part of china, and Mary is out on the yacht for the weekend. I'm sure you don’t mind.”

Q wafts his hand, “No, I've gotten more into sailing. Yachts are big, haughty, overbearing. But sailing is a skill-- that I can get behind.”

The Prince, for a moment, pretends he can't see the light in his agent's eyes when he mentions it, taking a big bite of his scone only for jam to plop heavily onto his suit.

Suave, Q, so sophisticated.

His mother bites her lower lip to hold back any fit of giggles that might erupt, shaking her head. He quickly starts to wipe it off with his napkin, looking sheepish.

“So sailing? Do you even have a sail-boat?”

“No but I've drawn up some designs... I'll have it made by the end of the year. A gift to myself for the upcoming PHD, of course.” A smirk, and he knows Seven will have lots of questions about it. A whole topic just for them to discuss.

Perfect.

His mother shakes her head in disbelief, but there's endearing love in her eyes.

“So, about Peru...” She starts, and soon its about politics and policies, and how he's reflected on these places.

“Royalty should be for the people, should be a symbol of its culture, or well, you get the picture.” Q rambles, and it's lovely, it's real, it's everything his mother ever dreamed of. And a certain agent, can't take his eyes off of him.

Of course, it's his job not to.

 

_Of course._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't very well see Bond jumping on the lamb right at the proper age; no, I see it taking a bit of time before that even hits him. 
> 
> Also, I didn't feel like there would be enough backdrop for a relationship starting at 21 and working my way up. So, I thought a time stamp would be appropriate. Also, I might in the future write little dates or moments between the two (All innocent I assure you) for shits and giggles. Let me know if that might be something you'd like. 
> 
> Adding to that I suppose I should tell you that this is the point where we'll be getting to the bulk of the matter; Q and Bond stuff and all the drama we can handle. 
> 
> There's still a bit to go before they get together, period, so, bear with me. I promise there's a happy ending where it counts!


	7. Fission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fucked should be the alternate title of this chapter.

Things always had a way of fucking up, royally.

 

_Especially_ royally in their cases.

“Quincy, you haven't eaten well in four days, you've been off and gone every other night, either your studying or your off with your-- your boyfriend?”

“We're just dating mother, its not anything to be concerned about.” He drawls out wistfully, great, this is the conversation their going to have.

“Whats this about a boyfriend?” Bond managed to stay out of this conversation, when this topic is brought to his attention and well. He didn't know. At all.

“Are you telling me, not even Bond knew?” His mother looks even more worried, perplexed even.

Q, chuckles dryly, “Of course, yes, the 21 year old man dates and has a life beyond licking the arse of society. Yes, I drink, I have dates, I play pool and I'm a total dick at Uno.”

“Uno?” His mother looks horrified.

Both Bond and Q answer at nearly the same time. “It's an American card game--”

They stop and look mildly worn at the silliness of this conversation.

“Alright, I'm officially done arguing here. This is not a prison, I am not obligated to stay here at all times and be the dutiful child...”

“Quincy, that's not what I--”

“No you just absolutely must know where I am, who I am with, what I am doing at all times? No, no you don't do this to Mycroft...”

“But Mycroft is--”

“Mycroft abdicated. So somehow I need a tracker lodged up my arse because I'm so terribly important.” Dry, he never raises his voice or uses a cutting tone. Just a steel intonation with pure will behind it.

Q turns on heel, and leaves before another word could be uttered.

The Queen turns away and holds her forehead, and when she looks back around to talk to bond he's poured her a cup of tea already. Her favorite.

“Oh---seven.” Almost an exhausted note.

“Your majesty if I may...”

She's mid sip, when she pulls from the cup to nod quickly; 'go for it.'

“I think-- I think Quincy was partly... correct.”

Olivia turns to her chair, walking as if every movement was a thought process. Settling into the comfortable looking thing, probably older than her. “Go on.”

Looking hesitant, “He's 21, he's been responsible, being hard on him or pressuring him any more after—well--”

She nods understandingly.

“He's got till the spring, just a few months, before he's got his doctorate. A real prodigy, and I'm sure its stressing him out immensely.”

 

The Queen's lips quiver, as if she's about to cry and boy does Bond hope she doesn't. Don't, please, _one_ crying royal is plenty enough thanks.

No, instead she looks revamped with fortitude.

“I'll talk to him in the morning... I just. I need to go lie down.”

“Of course your majesty.”

“And Bond.”

Olivia says before leaving out the ornate passageway.

“Your majesty?”

“Thank you.”

Bond accepts it with a bow of his head, then, she's gone.

 

 

 

The club is all hot and briny with the scent of sweat, musky from the majority of male inhabitants. It's not the hottest club in the area, it's not _Liquid_. Some hot spot were one would expect a Gay starlet (or in his case, royal) to trounce.

No, it's a secret little place he got from a few mates, well, he didn't ask about it, just sort of overheard a conversation and therefore; here he is.

His hair is pulled back, and he's got a short, straight, boyish wig in scarlet orange pinned tightly to his head. So tight in his anxiety, that it's probably pinching some sort of nerve ending. Better safe than sorry he figures; A gin and tonic with a cucumber on ice is his go-too, which, incidentally, he's working on his third one.

Not nearly as much of a lightweight as he was a few years ago.

Okay, so he's drinking them very slowly, it's going to be just fine. He thinks, especially when a broad blonde starts dancing in his space.

Q could hardly dance, it was more flailing than anything, but he had hips, knew how to use them, and all the boys loved his svelte pretty body.

Yet Q, unlike many others, would often pull in men from the sidelines who often looked too nervous to join all the pretty lads grinding and pumping to a thick Euro beat, sounded Belgium, but who cares anyways?

So he pulls this mixed boy, close to him and smiles wickedly up at the tall, thick, sort of chap. Shy, a nose ring, a tooth gap, he's adorable, and Q feels for certain that this man with a 'little extra' would feel a lot less awkward than all these well muscled prats, or skinny queens.

“Whats your name?” Shouts the man, leaning into Q's ear.

“Ah--- Alcott, my names Alcott, call me Al.” He smirks, “You?”

“Louis, but call me Lou?” French accent? How quaint!

Q pulls him close, and he smells of _L_ _acoste_ cologne, simply lush, and they dance for a bit, until 'Louis' has to go; Q nearly pouts.

But that was all this was.

He dates good old oxford boys, dances with civilians, and dreams in these nights that he was just some normal guy, in college, who could date anyone his heart fancied.

Tonight, he was Alcott, who was a drop out uni student, and lived with a bunch of mates who pooled in from part time jobs.

Yeah, he's eccentric, pretending to be anyone but himself, it wasn’t just important, it was necessary.

Except, he bumps into some guy with short buzzed hair, he's older, late thirties maybe? Q wasn't counting.

The poor sheltered boy of a royal palace was far too into the way the mans designer jeans hung low on fit, cut, hips.

It was like a uranium-235 atom absorbing a neutron.

Fissions into two new atoms.

Releasing new neutrons and binding energy.

Except... one of those neutrons is absorbed by an atom of uranium-238 and does _not_ continue the reaction.

 

Okay, basically energy.

 

Perfect, inspiring, dangerous, energy.

 

Q's mind worked in a way many others couldn't comprehend; understanding was one thing, comprehension...

But all this excess, whatever it was, it went faster than he imagined.

Bodies swinging, the third hand of the clock that counts the seconds, rhythmic and captivating. This isn't Q's favorite sort of music. This isn't even his favorite scene; yet there's nothing he could even do to stop it.

Stop him from pushing the man back into the corner of the dance floor.

Their hands are searching, climbing over two dampened t-shirts, and well-worn jeans, belt buckles so tremendously in the way. Hearts racing, both of them hard and pressed so close that zipper burn would have happened if it weren't for expensive briefs that Q hopes this bloke was wearing.

This was all he wanted.

Bloke, didn't figure that.

Drunk out of his mind, somehow they get to a bathroom stall and clothes are falling off until the sheer stark white and breeze of nudity hits him like a ton of bricks. Like walking into a deep freezer without a jacket.

A sobering effect, he pushes his hands out in front of him, panting, sweating, _speak_ boy, speak!

“I—I-can't.”

Q gasps, grimacing, closing his eyes tightly.

The man resists a halt at first, but pulls back a little, “What do you mean you can't?” Confusion, anger, and almost a tint of hurt.

A smidge.

“Look, I really, it's not even you, honestly, I'm...” Bullshit it up Q, play up your innocence, do the do, you got this.

 

_I'm asexual, and I have a mental disconnection from my fucking cock, and I really, really don't want to have sex right now even though my body is totally and completely up for it._

 

“I'm a virgin and I got--”

The man huffs, looking relieved, it wasn't anything he did, and the scent of alcohol is all over him. He's kind of taking it way better than Q had imagined.

“Shit, you're really young-- and-- shit, I didn't hurt you did I?”

“No-- no, I'm truly sorry.” Q is shivering, but the guy is wobbly, trying to pick up Q's clothes without falling on his arse.

“Look, this, I'm not gonna lie, this puts a storm on my mood. But-- I rather you tell me that you don't want this shit-- than, I don't know, I being some nightmarish memory of how you lost it in a stall-- “ Zipping up his pants.

“T-thank you, God-- just, thank you...” This part, isn't an act, this is him coming off adrenaline that he had no idea actually kicked in.

“Bloody oath, don't worry about it... I mean, I get it, but, be careful alright?” The guy, nice guy, Q says in his head, stumbles off with a wave and nearly whacks into the door.

Q stands looking in the mirror for much too long.

He knows this when two other men come crashing into the restroom and bound for a stall to start vigorously fucking as if it were going out of style.

That means its time to get a cab and go home.

Grabbing his phone, he notices a total of six texts.

All from one very flustered, upset, James Bond.

 

__J. Bond7 to Q:_ _

 

_We need to have a talk._

 

Not unexpected, not unusual, and then an hour later.

 

_J. Bond7 to Q:_

 

_Where are you? You told M that you would be at Jessica's studying, this is a security breach and you know it, Q._

 

Few more hours after that;

_J. Bond7 to Q:_

 

_Answer your bloody phone._

 

__J. Bond7 to Q:_ _

 

_Remember the last time this happened? Q if you do not call me, M or your mother in the next three hours I will have half of England's finest looking for you. It will not look pretty in the papers._

 

And a few more, that was just forty five minutes ago.

With a deep breath, Q calls the cab and has them drop him off just a neighborhood away from the palace.  Pulling down the wig once th e cabbie  drive s away.  A fist around fluorescent hair, he grabs  his phone to finally text him, and sends his location in Longitude and Latitude cause he's a little prick like that. 

B ond shows up in exactly 15 minutes, in casual clothing, it hits him that the man might have had the night off and it starts guilt in his stomach something fierce. 

An expensive black jumper, nice jeans, nice leather shoes and a fine Swiss watch. Goodness he feels under dressed in messed up club clothing and yes perhaps a bit of lip stain and smudged mascara.

Even more so like a fool, than before.

Bond gives him a look as he slides into the passenger side. A huff, gripping his wig tightly. A moment of heavy silence before his serviceman pulls from the parallel park and drives off towards the palace.

The man is stoic, quiet, it makes no sense with how urgent the texts sounded, and how pissed he figured the man would be.

“Your highness, I'm not in the business of playing dumb. Nor am I in the business of being accident prone, or pulled under suspicion for your disappearance.”

Q opens his mouth, Bond is quick to cut him off.

“What you did, what you've done...” Gripping the wheel tightly, and deciding to pass the back entrance of the gate entirely, to drive down a dark road.

Q stares straight ahead, but tries not to give in to the guilt, or the fighting urge to yell and pout obnoxiously.

“Go on, I've heard it all before.”

A screeching halt of the car, Bond turns to his left to look at the boy. Anger in his eyes and glow silver in the hollow light in the car. It's whiplash in the emotional sense, a prince with his breath taken away by everything, absolutely every detail in this moment. Unable to avoid the gaze with his sheer determination alone.

“No. No you have not heard it all before. Lest listened... I don't care if I have to put you over my knee. This sort of behavior is unacceptable, inexcusable, you're much too...” Stopping, some kind of realization in his eyes. As if he knew he said too much.

So Bond pulls off the brake and does a turn, accept he cant cause the Prince pulls the keys out from the ignition and in a childish bout slides it down his pants.

Which it all happened so quickly, it couldn't be good for the transmission, but he'd be damned to care.

They sit there, car in an awkward turned, diagonal, position in the middle of a neighborhood

road in some odd early morning hours of the dead.

“I'm... I'm just going to blame that on my gin and tonic, Seven.”

“Right.”

Dropping his wig to the floor, “I'm 21 years old, Seven. I'm 21 and I've never held a stable or promising relationship. Had close friends, or otherwise, and on the occasion I slip to the most homosexual place imaginable because I have to be perfect, royal, and genuine in front of everyone else.” Cutting voice, filled with his stress, rubbing his face.

A look of mild understanding, not as though Q could see him.

“What about the boyfriend?”

“Did you not just hear me, or should I still find it necessary to repeat myself every single time.”

More silence, ah, so it's like that.

“He's nice, he's not like... anyone else. But that doesn't mean...” Why the hell is he here talking about this? What is his life?

“If you think I'm angry because you wanted to go out and play Josie and the Pussycats tonight of all nights. You're mistaken, Q... your highness.” He corrects, a groan barely audible when he shifts in his seat.

“No one knew where you were, worst of all you lied, how many other times have you lied before? What if something had happened to you? How would we...”

“Don't play coy with me.” Q crosses his arms, his legs, its dangerous, its dark, and damn if it doesn't send sensual ideas through the brain of a man who should be totally job focused and not at all on the long stretch of legs.

There's a shocking thought.

“I know you have trackers in my phone, that my mother keeps one oh-so mysterious on my car.”

Bond shakes his head, “Easily separated from you, surely you know that?”

Q goes silent, cause he knows Bond is right, and the fight is slowly slinking off. Here comes that guilt again.

“I'm sure you have something better to do, than play nanny for a night. I understand, Seven, it wont happen again. I assure you.” Forcing himself back into that cool, intelligent, air that his family knew very well was his first line of defense with anything and everything emotional.

Well, usually.

 

A few huffs.

 

Silence.

 

“Well?”

 

Q remarks, sternly.

“The keys, your highness...”

 

Oh.

 

Oh yeah, the keys.

 

Embarrassment floods his face with pink, thankful for darkness and alcohol to hide his shame. Handing him the keys, they quietly drive off back to the palace.

A well deserved escort to his room, and proper help up the steps. Thankfully no one asks questions, or makes a remark.

“Did you tell my mother?”

Q asks as they reach his door, emotions more open and full on his face and pouted rouged lips.

“No, your highness, and she won't know... if...”

“It won't happen again... it was, this is all irresponsible...”

 

“Quincy.”

 

The young man stops in his tracks, hand on the door, something about Bonds' strong voice said turn around, look at me.

The head of messy pulled back curls turns towards the agent in question. Only a few inches taller but seemingly hulking to the smaller, lithe, Prince in question.

“Don't self deprecate. Don't think that enjoying your youth is wrong or somehow, unwise. Take it from someone who did quite a bit of drunken shags on a naval ship.”

Q lets a little crooked smile, stretch his pressed tight lips.

“Just be safe. If anything. For me, and your mother.”

“Not for the country?” He asks, quietly, bright and questioning emerald eyes.

“I suppose with someone like your mother in charge, country, in your situation, should be able to wait.” A soft glimmer in the agent, one that reflects back in kind. A moment is shared,

“Thank you, James.”

“It is my pleasure, your highness.” They share one last look, quiet, deep, and Q shuts the door behind him. Laying back against it and staring straight ahead. Sinking to the floor.

 

He's fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone! :D Sorry it's been slow but my job dictates business around holidays! I hope you enjoy and please RnR!


	8. Asymmetrical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When its all Topsy turbulent...

     It's a quiet afternoon, as most days start in the palace. A small corner round, with soft Victorian lighting and natural glow to wake the staff and such. Bond is nosed into a paper, Q is scrolling through his phone as he stirs tea nonchalantly. The agent takes a sip of coffee, the air is thick and cloudy but with what Q is uncertain. Most of the time he knows well what the error is, and that is his judgment on men. As today is going to be, or, supposed to be, a special day today. His boyfriend would be paying visit here for the first time, he promised he wouldn't have a royal (ha ha) heart attack at the sight of exclusive palace dormitories.

"So, what is his name?"

Sends Q out of a reverie twice as nutty than usual, but he's not stammering or insecure. Silences interrupted with dry and puzzling remarks followed by more silences was absolutely his game. He's bloody English.

Still, his insides clench, his palms start to excrete like some weird insect. What have you, he's nervous despite the distinct familiarity of it all.

"Clarence."

He says, a posh twist of his lips when he speaks the name, sipping at his cuppa delicately, but not removing his eyes from the random articles on _reddit_. Bond is looking at him, and sure he's not looking up to know if he is or not but he can feel that ice azure beam, burning into his forehead like a villainous gleam in a comic book. Licking his lower lip, Q shifts in his seat a bit to cross his ankles and lay back a lot less properly.

"Clarence, are you and Mister... Clarence, Serious?"

Which, was an odd question indeed. Why the hell should he care, sure he's a body guard. It does what his agent desires apparently, because it gets Q to look up from his phone and for gods sake the man is smirking like the cat got the cream.

"You're Bonkers."

"Mm." Bond answers.

Q glares, his agent smiles a little more; a rare sight as that is, his face heats up into the darkest of crimsons on snow pale cheeks.

"Seven." A warning note.

"Well, I do need to know. After the... incident on the yacht. It's not all curiousity, I do intend on keeping you safe." A knowing look in his eyes, as another agent passes by with a maid. Discrete about Q's little moment at the club last week, and yet the point is taken.

Timing it perfectly with Bond who goes in for a deep pull of his coffee, Q answers.

"I'm an Asexual, Seven. I'm rarely prone to random sexual encounters, although I admit my birthday is usually when I strike in my adventures."

Coughing, the man starts to cough, barely holding in the hot liquid, sliding a napkin effortlessly off the table. How in the hell does this man manage to make even coughing on caffeinated beverages refined. It drives him up the wall with affection, reaching a hand over to steady the coffee in Bonds' hand that threatens to go flying onto the floor.

"I'm sorry, but you said the word 'sexual', I remember when you were just barely torso-high." Voice rough and low, and its _inexcusable_ what it does to the now fully grown adult male in front of the older one in question.

"Oh please." Q rolls his eyes.

"You saw me half dazed after sucking a prick, I'm sure you can handle a bit of talk on my sexuality."

"Q." Warning.

Q looks at him, cunning minx he is.

"Who's the child now?"

They stare each other down for a moment, Bond falters, then with a single fold to the cloth napkin he places it on top of his paper.

"Well, if you're seriously going to talk to me about this, come out with it." A dry tone, not amused in the slightest.

"Do you even know what an asexual is?" Q asks seconds after, trying not to feel the heat of Bond's judging gaze.

"Do I even know what a-- yes, of course I do. I've been in the service for quite some time, knowing of people's proclivities or lack there of are part of my job description. So, how is it that you even manage? I wonder? Surely I've heard, and met your type here and there, but how do you have--- relationships?"

"Well how do you?" Q prompts back after a sip of tea. It's not a question he's not heard before, but it still grinds at his soul. Makes him feel weak and dry.

"Beg pardon?"

Leaning forward, Q props his elbows onto the table holding his head with his hands and his eyes on the prize.

"I figure, you're getting to the age were relationships get boring. You've been there, done that, can't exactly tell them about your job description or what entails. Secrecy is absolute, your loyalty undying to my family, I know." Being mildly facetious, slightly pretentious, and more than completely, an ass. On purpose with a flutter of lashes that cover intelligent emerald eyes.

Bond goes impossibly quiet, well, not necessarily impossible, Q had seen him in many stern ways as a guard to her majesty the queen.

"Well?"

"Touche." Bond replies, stoically, looking as if he'd lost all his appetite for coffee.

"Not as much fun with the proverbial putting yourself in others shoes. Yes?" Teasing for a bit more effect, Q is feisty but he is in no way cruel. Well, at least to those who he can help it. His agent looks close to twitching, Q sighs, arranges his glasses a little.

"Seven, I have relationships as well as any Royal member of the family can. Discretely, private, and few and far between. Sometimes I just--" Blinks, rubbing at his chin, because it's personal. But he can trust him, he knows it, with everything, and so he lets it out. He's known this man for far too long to care.

"As far as intimacy, no one ever coerces me into something I don't want. You've taught me plenty on disarming any arsehole who tries. Not--" Bonds eyes got marginally wider, Q had to tame the beast. Even though something little and tingly gets vibrant with the thought of Bond being protective, and over him. Even if its his job, yes, logically it doesn't matter. But who ever said love, emotions, feelings, were logical.

"Not that I've had to use such lessons." A deeply held look for absolute honesty. He was a terrible liar, and Bond could always tell. So, he immediately appears mollified, settling.

A huff through his nose, "I've never felt sexual attraction to people, not that I know of and if I do it passes in seconds. Most of the time it's just curiousity, I wonder what that person looks like, I wonder how they feel, what this feels like. So if and when I do, it's more--" Waving his hand, ears and cheeks gone pink.

"I see, understood." A nod, scratching the top of his head, concerned he pried too far.

"Your-- your highness I do apologize if I have--"

Q gives him a deadpan look, Bond coughs back a small chuckle. A witty smirk that the young prince returns in favor.

_I want you._

_I love you, so much, and it's utterly daft I know._

_But I do._

They share this look, it's longer than ever before, Bond's eyes are steely and sharp. Cold and calculative, but spare a sort of warmth there that--he's probably imagining but. It's there. Q, is all deep olive oil painted eyes shimmering over with natural glow partially covered with thick near-black curls.

"Well then, now that that is all settled." Q is actually the one to stop the absolutely stupid stare fest, clearing his throat.

Bonds phone does it's little chirp, and he's on it leisurely but not exactly taking his time. It's something agents seem to have perfected. "It looks like your boyfriends' gotten through the first security checkpoint. I need to go speak with your mother, you're free to go to him but he has one more to work through before he's allowed in the palace." Q smiles. "Wouldn't expect anything less, thank you, Seven." They share another look, before the smaller gentleman is on his way just a tad hurriedly. It could be disguised for excitement, when really he just wants to escape anything and everything awkward.

 

"Whats your favorite book?"

"Dune." Q murmurs like its a dirty little secret, smiling happily, its nice being around Clarence but it's not...

Blinking, Clarence plays with a few locks of his hair, the prince laughs. They're cuddled up in the library, both their suit jackets on opposing chairs on the table beside them while they share comfort at a window seat with plenty of cushions. "Oh, and you're to talk, whats yours, pray tell?" Playful little murmur.

"Tom Clancy books I reckon..." He answers with a shrug, the lacrosse playing secret chess club, graduate boy. Q fixes the little pommade pomp on the top of his head that looks absolutely James dean and precious on the man. It's flirty eyes, and laughing.

The sun was well past set, and the dim lights set such a romantic mood which was intimate, private, wonderful. The prince hadn't had such time to himself in such a long time, so when they kiss it's sweet. More fun and giddiness than some epic desire or any sort. He was lonely, but not desperate.

"Q..." He moans with this voice divine, Q moans back slipping into his lap. Humming into wet little kisses. 

It goes on for hours like this, delightful banter, touching, when Clarence gets him behind the loveseat for hiding. Between the window seat and a few side tables for cover, pulling his pants down, unzipping, Q doesn't stop him, doesn't really care that he gropes around.

When eventually a finger makes its way to his arse, and he jolts still.

"Clarence." A hesitant noise.

"Mn? What?" Throaty confused voice.

"I---I don't really wish to--"

"Oh come on Quincy, you're hard as a rock..."

_Just from over-sensitivity, I don't want to have sex with you, at least not here and now._

"Clare--"

"I went through all the trouble..." Somehow trying to sound playful as he sort of gleans on about it.

"You don't really want to?" Kissing him before he can answer, trying to seduce him with what ever powers that might.

"Cl--" Mouth taken recklessly, he tries to push Clarence off a bit.

"I don't--"

A clearing throat is what breaks Clarence away from Q, because for sure, its not either of the two who were fiercely lip-locking in abandon. Stunning them apart effectively, which, is duly noted for future 'lets piss Mary off' moments. Those are a real treat, significantly so.

"B-Seven?" Q says breathlessly, they both sit up, Clarence playing the proper gentleman and offering his hand. Before he can even touch the prince, James Bond is close as well a silent offer of his own outstretched palm to Q; who takes it without a second thought. A blank face, observant eyes, and a steady countenance despite it all. 

"I was going to tell you, your mother wanted me to check up on you before I left for my flat. Are you in need of anything, your highness?" A low voice, shoulders puffed, and he looks like he could kill in any second with his pinky finger. It suits the agent well, and better than that perfect _Saville Row_.

"Actually, I think Clarence was just leaving... he needs a proper escort out of the palace."

His boyfriend, or, well, not going to be anymore balks.

"Q?"

"Seven?" Adjusting his sleeves, not able to look Clarence in the eye as his face gapes, fish like now when his highness thinks about it.

"Seriously, why you little-- seriously?"

Bond touches his earpiece, murmurs something unintelligible.

Clarence, realizing he's being a fool, and good, because Q is really tired of this scenario, in fact, he's so embarrassed he could scream. His agent staring daggers into his ex like its a damn game and this man is fucking target paper. Soon enough, two of security are there to escort him out. To Q's obvious relief, Bond oversees it all, and despite the nice earl grey and a warm bath;

It leaves a bitter taste on his mouth, and a filmy feeling on his skin. Settled in a warm robe on his bed, staring blankly at a laptop screen for no other reason than to blank out.

The piping steam from his cuppa wafted away and cooled before he could recall how long ago it was the cup was made. Cold, he settles the cup and saucer onto his night stand, puts his knees to his chest and sighs. Wrapping his arms around his legs.

Nearly startling right off the side of his bed when Bond walked in like a bat out of hell, he looks tired. But there's something wild there. Something he can't quite place, it makes him wordless. Catching his footing onto the side of his bed, Q settles with ease and watches in curiousity. Breathless for a moment, the oxygen forcing its way though despite the need to take in the agent as he is.

Panting a bit and trying to make it seem like he's not, it's like a bull steaming after scarlet fabric.

"Seven--" Q asks, low and uncertain cut off immediately.

"--Are you bloody stupid?" Bond answers, angry, Q puffs up and fails because his agent is unfaltering.

"Excuse me?"

"You just get-- you just tell me that you're a damn asexual and you put yourself in a compromising situation that could have ruined your entire life and not for a second did you think to just, call, send a message? Something?" Blistering, low, gravel in his voice as he hisses out his despair.

"I--well I--"

"And you with your stupidly brilliant looks, he- the way he was looking at you, right through you like a primary school boy with a boner for the teacher. Ridiculous little tosser..."

"Se-Seven, I didn't..." Tears well up in his eyes and immediately Bond freezes up when he realizes it's effecting him. Should have realized it had. Didn't mean the rant he just spewed _in the way it could be taken_. Not angry at Q, no, _no_... not Q, not even a little. If anything it's the leftover boiling water at the man who dared to make Q struggle against him like that. Trap his highness to the upholstery and intend to continue despite his pleas.

"Q..."

"Fuck you."

Fire, the dragon spits, the tears slowly form and pull down his cheeks but he's quick to catch them and make them disappear, defiant and tormented.

Bond finds himself in the position he didn't want to be, moving forward while Q steps back. Grabbing his upper arms, Q struggles and pounds at his chest angrily. "You fucking arse. You fucking arse hole! Why the hell-- why do I even try..."

"Q."

Grabbing at his head, not frantic just tired rubbing at his eyes so hard Q knocks his own glasses off his face.

"I didn't mean it this way, I don't think you're at fault, your highness; Q-- Quincy--"

His Q is in a form of shock he thinks, so he lets go to grab Q's glasses and realizes the frames are a tad bent. Messing with those silently as Q trembles to gain his resolve. With a deep sigh, Bond continues;

"My words are brash, I know it isn't your fault, _Darling_ , Q..."

 _Woah_ boy, does that stop Q in a way he didn't think possible. His heart goes out of control, his eyes that have dried up are now wide and carefully placed at Bond's chest, then neck and the softness in those blue eyes.

"Darling, I know, I know that this was completely not your fault. No matter your sexuality, no matter what, I'm here and I am...sorry." Cupping his cheek after he slides them back close to his prince.

"Se-Seve--"

Doesn't know what takes him over.

Doesn't know what pushes him to do it.

It's natural, and pure. A press of soft lips and gentle touch.

Bond kisses the poor boy, who doesn't struggle, doesn't push or punch. His eyes widen at first, then close, hand slide into fists around Bonds classy shirt and unsparingly so; his agent is completely unaware of anything but the soft and lithe hands at the small of his back playing harp on his spine. It's hot and breathless, wet, desperate, until it's not.

A step back, looking at the boy who's breathless and aware of him in every regard.

Questions in those tourmaline eyes, as Seven takes several steps backwards, before gliding away and out the door before anything else could be spoken.

Leaving the boy breathless and confused as ever, backing away slowly to thud onto his bed. Touch his own lips, tears dripping down his face, uncertainty and almost this feeling that he's been compromised. Like he could never be safe again, the room felt cold, especially without him there, the one who robbed him of everything. Between self confidence, security, and sense of worth.

He'd never felt as weak and bone brittle as he did now, fumbling for something to wear under his robe. Just realizing that he was wearing nothing but this scant thing the whole time tugged at his hearts chords. It hurts, it's not how he wanted to kiss him.

 

**To Seven:**

**From Q:**

7 please I know it was just an accident

 

Bond stamps off down the hallway angrier than even before, worst of all the anger is all aimed at himself. The buzzing in his pocket is almost nonstop, tuned to the sound of his thudding feet on palace floor. Headed towards the Queen's parlor, knowing what he had to do now. Heart in his throat, it was the only time he realized he truly had one and that the blasted thing existed. Normally his training made it easy to tune it out, ignore the dull thud in his ears and chest. But now, so painfully aware it was devastating, danger and fear hammering through his body.

 

**To Seven:**

**From Q:**

I'm not upset please just come back talk to me please

please

 

Down stairs and halls, until he's there. A sort of comfortable scene of her majesty with her favorite Corgi, Churchill.

"Your majesty."

"Seven?"

"I'm here to officially submit my resignation."

It would be one of the first times he's seen shock in her eyes of any sort, usually calm and cool, collected. Her voice despite the look, was clear and calm as day.

"Where's the paper work? Have you truly thought this through?" Petting her pup leisurely.

"Yes majesty, I have violated the terms of my employment and submit myself to any legal action pending investigation." Bond drones out, robotic, stoic as he can be with how the bile rises to his tonsils in karma's flagellation. He deserves to be fired and arrested.

"Was what you did, treasonous? What in heavens are you talking about Seven?" The queen's guard, Mallory, AKA 'one', was stepping closer out of the hall.

"Seven?"

"I kissed his royal highness Quincy without his explicit permission."

The Queen stares, a soft nod, wondering how the hell her son reacted and since she doesn't see him it can't have been good. Although she had no idea of the circumstances beforehand, not yet anyway.

**To Seven:**

**From Q:**

Please Seven, Seven, James.

James

"I accept, on one condition." She says softly.

Bond is confused but nods professional as ever despite his tone, "Majesty?"

"Do take Six with you? Don't spend this night alone."

Silence.

"Yes, Your majesty." He hands One his gun, his keys, his code badge, its rash its reckless and absolutely absurd but he did this. He did this to his career, he needed to retire anyway. It was getting to be a slight hassle. But the scent of earl grey and honey-crisp sits on his tongue, teeth, lips.

The memory of hands that he was sworn to protect, clinging, plucking nerves in his vertebrae. Sonnets like a violin sextet.

Six is waiting outside by his car, gripping his shoulder, squeezing tight. Apologies in his eyes, but no judgment here.

"Don't you think quitting is a little harsh?"

 It's like his voice stuns him wide and raw, open to attack and any other sort of terse arguments that could happen in the thick of it all. At least his heart had stopped that bloody pounding. His breath leveled, but agony roars inside like an angry lion over its pride. The home it spent ten years to protect and guide, only to fail it. It's almost worse than letting a bullet have them, almost worse than failing to physically shield. He emotionally damaged and went too far.

"No."

"James, I know how this gets in through to your ruddy old belief system but--"

"Q--Quincy, was my mission. I compromised him, in ways I can't take back. I'd be a fool to attempt continuing my career..." Which reminds him.

"Who's his detail for the night?" Worry seeps into his voice, Alec throws a look at him after parking the (bonds) car, gently, because hurting the aston martin could be certain death. "Seven."

"Just James, Alec."

A reluctant sigh.

"James..."

"Alec." Steely blue meet dark Atlantic orbs.

Its a battle of wills, and no one wins.

"Robbins. He's at his doorstep to keep eye; it's ridiculous, how did you 'compromise' him? You've seen the man fucking for _Christ_ sakes!"

"Alec, that is his royal highness you're speaking of." Angry, an yet, Alec can detect that the bitterness is not to be aimed at him.

"James--- James holy shit." Turning to face him completely. "Did you fuck him?"

Bonds eyes nearly bug out of his skull, which gives a recoil in the man next to him.

"Fuck! Seriously?"

"No! Oh for fucks sake, no I did not, I would never--"

Alec breaths in relief. "Then what?"

"It's the circumstances, I'm sworn not to speak of the matter outside..."

"You quit."

"Doesn't mean a damn thing Alec and you know it."

"I know you're being a complete coward, that's what I know. Total fucking pussy."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm gonna start yelling at 11 o'clock at night in the middle of the street if you don't start fucking taking." His friend demands.

Before he knew it, he was pulling a yelling Alec into his flat, the bottle of scotch in his dresser is opened. They get stone cold drunk, piss drunk, rolling on the floor and dead drunk before Bond tells him absolutely everything from start to finish. Both of them were sworn in, Alec would never speak a word.

"So what, you fucked up? You think he wouldn't forgive you?"

That's not a conversation he can continue coherently, so he gives two fingers, then covers his face with his arm. Falling asleep, after finally having removed the scent of him off his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuuuuck it took me a while; shit happens guys. I'm going to really try and finish this one. jfc. PLEASE RnR I need all the inspiration and help I can get. Especially with the shit I'm going through. Cheerio and much love!


	9. Paracetamol

He takes two before bed that night, that same night that Bond walked out of his life and everyone elses' for good.

He takes three the next night, with a glass of scotch to help him sleep. Not reading the bottle, not fucking caring, not wanting anyone to speak to him for eternity. Feeling weak and faint, desperate and depressed. Heartbroken, lonely, used and unwanted at the same time. Q wants anything to get to sleep, anything to just sleep because when he's stressed he gets terrible insomnia.

Then his stomach hurts, a terrible deep and sharp pain in his abdomen and sides. Q coughs, then vomits over his bed side. He scrambles in the puddle of his own vomit, dizzy, alcohol, and then it hits him. He goes for the bottle of pills on his dresser to read the warnings, but his glasses are smeared. Shit, blood.

"Help--" He coughs, pulling his hand to try and wipe. This is pathetic, terrible, truly. That very moment, Robbins is there, and emergency measures are immediately taken for his highness. The public is kept completely unaware as Quincy is having his stomach pumped, barely skimming liver failure.

Speaking of muddy livers.

Bond grimaces at the feel of sunlight on his face, two days of stubble had grown, his phone is vibrating an angry sensation against his bed. Squinting, his rubs his tired face only too late to actually answer the call as it goes to voicemail.

Alec, Alec, Alec, Moneypenny, the Queen, the Queen---  
Fucking oath!

He ignores all of the voicemail's, calls Alec immediately instead.

"Alec--"  
"James, we don't know the circumstances, we really don't but--"  
"Alec shut the fuck up and tell me whats going on." Steely anger, barely audible with the gravely tone.

"Q, well, Quincy overdosed on medication last night. The doctors say he should recover but he's being placed under suicide watch until he's cleared."

Bond goes dead silent, hanging up while processing it all in his head like quickly blinking computer screens that explain how much time left he has to leave before things blow up. He's up in a heartbeat, not even bothering a shave. Not bothering even a glance in the mirror, he puts on a jumper, some jeans, his nice trainers. Stuff he'd go on walks in, or for undercover assignments in the park with her majesty and such.

He's hungover, mildly, but still he does a jog to his car, grazing past a car in the process and stumbling a bit to the drivers side on the right. The former agent, assassin, commander, weaves through early morning traffic to the hospital. Only able to get up to the floor he knew his highness wold be in due to prior experience with the appendix crises in his first year in service to the palace.

He suavely threads through the first tier of security, and once he gets to the second his close associates give him a knowing look of sorts. He explains what Six told him, and nearly gets told to leave. When Mary comes out of the room, two of the guards take protective stances. She's frowning, looking at Bond confusedly. "Why did you leave?" Looking close to tears, but another look at Bond makes it clearer.

"You're worried about him too? He won't answer me, and I think--- I hope-- he'll answer you."

That was all the permission he needed to get, Mary let him in, which was lovely to be honest. The window was cracked to let in some of the cool breeze, Q was staring listlessly out the window in calm resigned manner. But it was cloudy out despite the nice wind that grazed by, so the silver daylight only added to the somber tone.

"I didn't commit suicide."

Was the first thing he hears in a low and hoarse breath of the young man hooked to an I.V.

"I didn't ask."

A reply from the doorway, serious as day.

Draws a surprised look, the prince looks at Bond and his heart nearly drops ten stories. The dark circles that have formed on the young mans face, the broken little vessels of blood around his eyes from retching so hard. The sickly deathly color of white he never thought possible on the already porcelain skin.

"I was an idiot, didn't pay enough attention, I must be the cornerstone for the kitchen gossip by now. There goes my solid reputation in stately gay princehood." Rolling his eyes, but even the usual dry intonation he'd play was carved of sandpaper.

"Your highness..." Bond starts, Q clears his throat with a long look at his former agent.

"Stop it."

Silence, a puzzled look in blue.

"I'm not hurt, or wounded in dignity or honor. Seriously. Being the first in the line to come out as queer really took the cake to be honest. Cream tea is nothing without a bit of gay snogging. Come off it." Blinking, clearing his rough throat again.

"Just because I fell into the age old scandal cliche, falling in love with my agent, the whole mistaken angst ridden kiss and moment of recompense eluding to delusional emotions. La-tee-da. Bond, I'm not a child, I made a clerical error in moment of drunken stupor. Hardly deserving of your pity, or worse, your angry illusions that this is somehow all your doing and you made this horrendous mistake-- seriously. I see it on your sleeves, your hand is out, full house, I call any bluff before you can even manage... so before I let you speak. Why are you here other than self flagellation and inward monologues of ruin, false driveling about treason..." Wafting his lithe hand about as if he had all the energy in the world.

Bond is frozen solid.

Then he awkwardly tugs at his jumper, rearranges his stance.

"I beg your pardon..."

That's when Q realizes he up and came out with it, his feelings, for his ex-body guard, and the look of minor panic really helps clear the air.

"It's alright, James, I've come to terms with it. Ever since I was 17, of course I'm going to develop feelings to someone I trust. It's not unheard of. But with wisdom, I knew, know its a silly thing. Yes?" Rolling his eyes, he plays a good part of the uncaring aloof genius as always.

Bond doesn't fall for it, a very solid turn of his head in the negative. "No."

"It's not silly at all, not in the slightest."

Q frowns at that, but before he can answer, his agent explains.

"Your feelings, your thoughts, those are the furthest thing from silly; Quincy, I behaved terribly, in my protective blind rage I ignored all the signs of your shock and discomfort. Unbecoming of a seasoned agent, and now knowing this, knowing that all along..."

"Oh please, stop it, please..." Q frowns, almost whimpers, which is enough to shut him up.

"My feelings-- it's enough that I've told you, yes? That I put this out here, for honesty's sake. But please, stop, don't, don't make it any bigger than it needs to be. I'm a completely functional adult, dealing with the catastrophe's that are my previous life choice. Falling for you, is hardly one of them." He raises a hand when James opens his mouth to speak.

"I can't--" A pause, re-choosing his words, reassessing his thoughts.

"I don't want to do this without you."

Bond doesn't know what to say to that.

"I don't want--- I don't want to go on as Prince. Alone. In that palace without you."

He's standing there, shocked, it's not so visible. The way Q looks at him, it's gushing like an open wound how deeply in love he is. But something resigned, no tears, no whimpering. Just an abandoned puppy in a hospital bed.

"Please." Posh voice, small, so tiny, barely above the beeping of the monitor.

"I need you, beside me. You are the truest friend I've ever had the luxury of encompassing, the only person I trust to protect me...Please."

Bond steps forward to the side of his bed, he gets on both knees, Q wasn't looking directly at him in his little speech. But he was certainly looking at him now, as the older man slips his hand upwards to grasp his hand firmly.

"If the queen permits it, I'll stay, I'll protect you with everything that I am." He promises.

"For Queen and country." Q says a little stronger.

"No." Bond shakes his head, gaze locking down.

Q blinks.

"For you, Quincy."

This darling young man, of porcelain and emeralds appears mildly bashful. Eyes fluttering away, a slight crooked up stretch of lips into a gentle smile.

It's as if the sun came out again, even as droplets of rain begin to challenge the window pane to a percussion's symphony.

 -0-0-0-

"But it's hardly mid-November." Bond scrutinizes, but keeps any real harshness out of his tone. Mostly its him trying to get a rise out of the younger man in question, Q, in a tizzy as he buttons up a navy blue cardigan and straightens his tie pathetically.

Months had passed since the incident with the pills, a psychiatrist had closely monitored Quincy as it was one of Seven's requirements for signing back on under a probationary period that he also insisted. He was cleared to perfection, but still his tiny bundle of sass-self.

"And?" Q murmurs succinctly.

"Well, Christmas shopping? Now? I hardly think the even the Americans are pulling off such a thing..." Rolling his eyes, remembering how Alec already got them some preposterous mini-faux Christmas tree and threatened to set it up even before December even transpired.

"I have so much to do closer to the date. Finals, and studies, the list is ridiculous. So, I'm getting this out of the way." Matter-of-fact answer.

"This week seems to be busier than most, why today of all days?" Bond asks, reaching in to help him with the slender sky blue tie. Unknown to him, that this tie was bought specifically because it matched the agents eyes. Just watching the older man adjust the expensive piece, has his stomach fluttering in a whirl.

"Precisely my point, no one will be looking for my face, they all think I'll be gussying up for tomorrow night and such. It's perfect."

A televised event, as many royals, delegates, important and yet close, people meet up for a gala and charity fund raiser.

"I suppose..." Bond replies, a light playfulness in his voice.

"Coffee first?"

"It'd be my pleasure, Q."

The smile on the young mans face this time, is incomparable.

"Come now, lets get a move on before we hit the morning traffic."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise bitch, bet you thought you'd seen the last of me. RnR please.


	10. Cafe Au Lait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your darkest, finest, coffee. Fair trade, 82 degrees, french press. Half filled 16 ounce cup, with steamed, whole milk. Please and thanks.

"Yes, I'll take the small almond croissant as well, please." He says politely, Q shifting beside him and tucking every strand of hair into his knit cap with a little pom on top. It's cold, but not terribly so. The hat is more for covert operations, as they find a small table in the corner to enjoy their tea and coffee in peace. They'd always share their mornings together if they could. Almost every morning.

"No coffee, Q? Do you _ever_ drink it?" He jests, a low chuckle with a sip of his steamed beverage.

"Ta." Q rolls his eyes, scrolling through his phone in silence.

Then, despite the nice moment of shared peace, he speaks.

"Truth be told, I do love the taste. I just can't stand what it does to my mind and body."

"Oh?" Bond finds this way more interesting than his paper, folding it over on to his lap and looking the man down. "Do explain." Sitting back in his chair with this god awful prowess. Damn alpha male broad-y bullshit.

"I'm just, more."

"More?"

"I'm faster, I'm awake for far too long, my body is a machine to control with precision. Just, more of that." Wafting a hand about, licking his rouge hued lips thoughtfully. Not noticing the look Bond takes. A slow look of intrigue.

"That is, interesting. It seems to me like you've become a jittery addict. Hm?" A smirk.

"No, not quite. But-- I save coffee for special occasions."

"Like what, pray tell?"

"Exams, and in the middle of dates I'm not particularly fond of."

Bond laughs a tiny bit at that, can't help it, "Is that so? That explains things." A sly look that sends all sorts of feelings physical and mental through Quincy.

They share a gaze, their feet touch, ankles locking, Q who's stirring his tea is only conscious of the man before him who sits back like he owns the place with class. Riveting dammit; he wants to watch him forever. This silence is delicious, perfect, harmonious, and sometimes for his own sanity he'd sit and imagine what it'd be like just to have another kiss. One more. Less shock in his bones, more enjoyment than dismay.

"You know, I did make a list." Q quips, hating to break the silence. They don't move their feet.

"Delightful." Dry remark.

Yet he can't help but take it seriously, this entire date could be described as nothing less. Especially when he watches Bond pop the lid off of his take-away coffee cup, grab his spoon to stir the creamy foam on top. Thoroughly until its stiff white peaks were soft caramel clouds, spooning its contents like ice cream into his mouth and palette.

After the majority of his list is through, Bond only holds three shopping bags of various sizes and origin. It's not too much, Q was a very precise and sorted out individual so shopping with him was more a seek and find and less a treasure hunt mess. (Like it would be with Mary...)

That night, Bond dreams and remembers the way it felt to hold his hand. How he regrets he did not kiss it that day.

And yet, he now sleeps without even touching a bottle.

-0-0-0-

 It's haughty and pompous and mirthless, but not too terribly dull. The conversation is light, witty, and well meant, much like a good scone for cream tea the humor is dry. The food is rich like good mums clotted cream. And the dress is bright, sweet yet not cloyingly, like the most scrumptious rose hip jam. Q didn't hate these, mostly he disliked being talked to constantly. That, could wear him out on the daily, never ceased to exhaust and amuse him at the same time. 

So it was with great stride and one tedious year long of forced etiquette classes, Q so fortunately remembered as if it were one long novel he read through a summer. Only it was a nightmare of training to eat with spoons as if it were coding or absolutely necessary for the function of his livelihood.

Now, it was apparent there was a certain dignity and grace in the act, dancing that wasn't as involved, and then there was the typical waltz but that was easy. It's only negative was that it wasn't quite proper to extend ones arm to another man for a dance. Which obviously didn't suit him well, or the so-called suitors that were on-call for his hand in marriage (yes the simple thought drew bile to his throat.)

Here he is chatting with the Queen of Spain, who giggles at his perfect Spanish because she can't believe it. He has to ask her several times if she's serious or just mocking him, but she kisses each cheek, laughing more, dusting off his lapel. Though Royal clothes always made him feel twice the man and thrice the pompous douche-bag; what did it mean to be a man anyway?

Didn't matter, or at least he didn't think so. So he lets the dukes stare in almost disagreement, or the random government official eye him with admiration or curiousity, or both? He wasn't sure.

What mattered to him was the way Seven's eyes fluttered over him from the peripheral.

Oh, it's his sodding job!

But still, his heart did cartwheels with the prospect that his agent may pay notice...

He dances with women twice his age because he hardly feels that there's merit to giving some poor girl false hope.

Q was his own man, and despite his mothers disdain that she wore on her sleeve (not for his preference, but for the hope of grandchildren or an heir) Q would continue to live as he so chose.

It was just as he finished off a dance with that same Spanish Queen, that he turned jovially and ran right into a tall sort of fellow with near platinum blonde hair and eyes like deep chocolate macaroons. "Oh--" His highness gapes a little, then promptly remembers his manners.

"I beg pardon..."

"Oh nonsense, your highness." The man smiles, tilting his head as if to read him in some way or fashion which intrigued and unsettled him until he lent a bow.

"No need, I don't believe we've met. I didn't ascend to crown prince until recently. My name is Sverre, Sverre Haakon." A gentle bow right back.

"Oh." Q quips, uncertainty, wonder in his eyes wide. "Perhaps then you've heard more of me than I of you and for that I--"

"Please, please no, don't do that." Accented pleading, this gentleman clears his throat. "Quincy Alcott, correct? I--"

"Q." Quincy smiles, pressing his glasses up his nose. "Q, uh, to my friends at least not that I--er--" Stammering a little, social aspect he understood in the general way. He just met this man and he's already broken the casual circumstance of his grade. Into a realm of uncertainty and misunderstandings to be born.

"Well, then let us be properly introduced so that I may call you that with distinction." A sly little grin, offering his hand, which Q tries oh he tries desperately hard not to gape at the sight. Where the fuck did this man come from, out of nowhere it seems.

"A dance?"

Q blinks, taking a deep breath, he sips down the rest of his champagne, then gives his gloved hand with grace. "I've never--"

"Danced with a man? I highly doubt this."

"No-- not-- not at things like these--"

"Do you not want to dance with me?"

"Why I didn't say that--"

"Good, the rest of them can, eat cake?"

Q lets out the most embarrassing laugh, oh how awful, the press would have a shit fit if they heard such a thing.

"Dear God--"

It's a dance, it's what it should be, allowed, perfectly innocent. Sweet murmurings between two with admiring gazes, hardly hidden laughter, jokes about the PM. What have you, Q had never felt more at ease in his entire life. Even with half the room, eyes on them, the first same-sex partnership on the floor of this grandiose statement. Yet, they forget about all that's around them. Yes, Q is having great fun, it's the most he's had in a long time.

"So I said to him, I've apparently been bred into this whole prince nonsense, does that mean I have to breed too? Call me a Norwegian hound?"

"Oh my God--"

"Yes, surprisingly that's similar to what he said..."

When they finally way off the floor, the next song starts, his eyes full of joy and contentment, the dream of a moment had passed. Especially when a deep, familiar, voice, drug him straight out of his reverie.

"Your highness, your mother requires your attention with a duke and duchess. She wanted me to wait until after your dance, which she spoke admirably of." A smile.

A deep breath, a moment to turn and apologize, but Sverre was shaking his head. Understanding. "You do what you must, call me sometime."

"Oh--er-- I'm afraid I don't have your number..."

"Look up Norway's Royal website, click on our family bio, Inspect the properties on my name. You'll see it very clearly." A wink, he turns with grace towards the opposite side of the room.

A moment of silence between Prince and bodyguard.

"Well."

"Seems your type."

"Quite."

"That was a nice show."

"Mm, well, I didn't expect it to go so smoothly. I'll take that as a win."

"You know it'll headline despite the lack of press."

"Well, looks like England has a proper show. "

Seven looks at him in such a curious way, it stuns him mentally, makes him re think, re track, refrain. No reason.

That was fun, Sverre was wonderful, kind, everything he should want, and he sort of did. Kissing him didn't seem so bad, actually, it sounded nice but;

"Well then, take me to my mother please? I can hardly navigate after a dance like that."

"Surely, your highness, he's not so much that you've become disoriented?"

"Har har, it was the dancing and my terrible anemia. Give me cheek one more time an I'll be forced to dismiss you. Seven."

That look again, one he's never seen before, thoughtful, stern almost.

"With pleasure, your highness."

Oddly, the remark bemuses. Placing a mile wide smile on his face, feelings like this, despite handsome princes', never just fluttered away; he thinks as he's gently guided to his mother who looks knowingly at the young prince in question, then at him.

\---

**BBC NEWS REPORTS: SHOCKING ROYAL ROMANCE, CAUSES HEADWAY FOR LGBT COMMUNITY!**

 

_By Kelly Greenwich_

_Finally, it is real._

_Says young gay teens, youth. A people who were inspired by the Queen and her reign, the newest princess and prince a testament to the progressive build to a nation that continues to grow and unfold. Being this, being who you are is no longer a stigma, a slight, a difference, only just as it should be. Who you are. Obviously our Prince chose to live his live honestly, admirably, no doubt not the first Gay man in the line; but the first openly gay._

_Only the progress we've achieved has made this possible today._

_**Impressive Innovation** _

_Our Prince not only inspires but his genius level status, only accidentally leaked by anonymous to backfire the conservatives who constantly threw negative comments in disdain. The PM was supportive in some rights, quiet in others, but the picture of Crown Prince Quincy in arms with none other than Crown Prince Sverre Haakon of Norway drew quite the publicity and somehow scandal._

_ Scandal, a strong word, exploited for the most simple of things such as interracial marriages and such, but now for a beautiful couple of the same gender. From  Oscar Wilde in his colorful repose, to the current Crown Prince openly dancing with another man.  _

_Today, yesterday, is a day in history none should forget._

_We tried to have a word with HRH Sverre, but his house is not available for comment at this time---_

    Sitting in a cafe, dabbing at his drippy nose from the cold wind. Well disguised and dressed all the same. He reads the article with sheer intrigue, when the man at the cafe calls at him. Well groomed, pretty sort of man wearing mascara and a tie. 

"What can I get for you today, sir. It's on the house, m'sure it'd warm you up a fair bit." A worried sort of note, when Q turns with a gentle smile, rearranging his glasses of a different frame than his usual. Hair tucked in his little pom beanie.

"Cafe Au lait. Please and thanks." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:U Merry Christmas you filthy animals. Lol RnR please and thanks.


	11. Trifecta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three time's a charm?

     He hasn't seen Bond in weeks, honestly, much too long for his tastes. Seeing Sverre was nice, yet it wasn't like a cozy afternoon with your best friend. Different feelings for each man. On the plus side he got to enjoy both of their company in different fashions. He didn't feel opposed to intercourse with Sverre, never enjoyed it like your average sexual being, but it wasn't bad. Or should he say, intolerable.

Staring down on this months itinerary was a boring nightmare of English tradition, and propriety even he wanted to roll his eyes at. After spending the last three weeks in Norway, Q was happy to be home. Especially with the fact that his mother wouldn't be back to pry at him for some time. As she was doing some diplomatic cause in Australia for the week. With the palace to himself of-sorts, it was a little breather to the bombardment of press and media. The silence was crisp and welcomed, he even fetched food for himself so he could hide away in the quiet kitchens.

It's not as if being with his beau was a terrible thing, actually it was nice. Having someone. Sverre, was so kind to him. Funny, never rude (unless the situation called for a bit of posh snobbery for sport.) Everything was lovely, smooth, fell in place like a puzzle actually.

Yet.

Sverre isn't James.

With his kept blonde hair, with silver barely peeking through the strands. Mature, strong, lines and perfect lips. Large hands, a perfectly fit body, that felt incredible pressed square against Q--

Q is eating oatmeal.

Poking at it more than actually eating it per-say, slowly tasting the cinnamon mixture, as his mind wanders into territory that hadn't been charted since the other night in the shower. Why he was thinking like this in broad daylight was beyond him, which is also why when Seven appears abruptly out of nowhere, he almost spills his bowl all over the place and his lap. Catching it before he made a complete cock of him self and fucked it up.

 "Q." He murmurs, lowly, clearing his throat because the agent's voice came out a tad gravelly.

"Seven."

A bit of silence.

"How did your holiday in Norway get on?"

"Nicely, thanks. Sverre's family is not nearly as awkward as all of mine. Total gentleman where it counts, and he's rather fashionable." A shrug, a dispassionate air. It's not as if he's trying to sound so bored. But he was, and is, with the entire scenario. If it weren't for school work and the increasing amount of homework emailed on the daily. Well, he probably'd have lost his marbles.

"Really? A complete gentleman. I do hope you mean in all regards." Seven's hardly enigmatic statement brushes him the wrong way. Placing his tea cup down, Q slides a bit to face him on the edge of the bar seat against the kitchen island.

"Seven, for the last time. I can care for myself, I don't need your bloody instigating in my personal life. Especially when I figure you'd trust me enough to tell you if anything were to... happen." Blinking, he looks into his watch whilst rose tinges his sharp, pale, cheeks.

Bond shifts his feet, almost appearing awkward until succinct professionalism completes the look in a suit. Suavely cocking his head.

"So you haven't shagged him yet?" Professional tone for such a damn question that leaves him squawking for a response.

Then something else colors his agents face, something he'd only seen a few times before, but never like this. And then it's resigned, his eyes and features cold.

"Well then. Seems I should trust you. I'm glad you had a good time. Have a pleasant morning your highness..." He turns, and Q's brain has whiplash by now.

"Wait!"

Bond, with his back facing the younger man, stops in place.

"Where are you going? I only-I only just got back..."

Almost like a kicked puppy despite the rude game of 20 questions back there;

"Today is my day off, Q, I came only to greet you. So I've done this, and now I'll be on my way." Hands in his pockets, seemingly polite as ever but with a sort of dry professionalism that sure; with anyone else it'd make sense but this was just preposterous.

Silent, Q takes a long sip of tea. Only because he doesn't want to forget about it later and for it to grow cold while he's lost in his thoughts.

"I see."

"Yes, Well. Good day."

Leaving the room, to leave Q sulking and concerned. Until moments later...

**To: Q**

**From: Seven**

Meet you at the garden around 14:00?

 

The poor darling has to read it thrice to believe it...

**To: Seven**

**From: Q**

I'll be 15 mins after

no earlier, no later

Bond stared for an inordinate amount of time at his phone, which continued to make his insides quiver and grumble as he tries to, and fails miserably, figure out why the hell he's acting so bloody odd. Slipping into his flat, he remembers Alec was still here after a long drunken shag the night before because the American is laying on his  floor with a cigarette in his mouth and an arm over his eyes.

"No sense of decency." A dry 'tisk' of mock shame.

"Fuckoff." 

"We did, last night, don't you remember?" Bond answers, mirth in his tone.

"Uh-yeah, of course I did. What I mean to say is, go find a girl with great legs and awesome jugs and show her a good time. Call me in the morning..."

"Americans just love to pretend shit didn't happen and blame it on--"

"Actually, mark that, don't call me in the morning. Please, I'll be too hungover to enjoy the story."

"Everyone else."

"Bond..."

"Alec."

Which seemed to knock the sleepy visage out of his friend, who twirls to sit upright and criss-cross in the center of his flat.

"You're fucking out of your mind for him, James. Anyone could see it, if they put their heads together that is. You're enigmatic, good at your job, and you suck dick like a good whore but that is far from what you need. More... more of anything that could remind you of him. So get your shit straight, no pun intended." Wiggling his brows. Bond reaches over for what he thinks will be a fist in the face, instead it's a pair of large fingers pulling the fag out of his mouth and into his own.

"You know nothing, don't pretend that you know me just cause you've a tight arse."

"Oh that's romantic, is that how you'll propose to his highness?"

He expected the man to lash out, or bark, or growl, whatever old wolfish men like him did at this age. Instead, he looks away, drawing a deep inhale, and puffing smoke in a forlorn cloud around them.

"Go home, Alec. I'm done with people right now, company of any sort."

"Fuck, you really are done for with this guy..." Eyes wide.

"Alec."

"Fine..." Raising his hands up in defeat, the American slips up to stand, puts on his combat boots from the night. Well accustomed to the walk of shame, and unable to pull it off like his friend could. But said friend was showering, shaving, getting ready. So before he's off..

"Where are you going?"

Silence. "None of your business." 

Bless his soul, the American has the sense to just shake his head, and curse about his stupid Brit friend in love with a Royal; just the sort of cliche he'd have for this.

Seven sticks to simple civies; jeans and a Henley, nice trainers and a leather jacket. Braving out into the nippy weather that flicks at his nose and cheeks, but he's able to easily ignore this and worse. Remembering the Aircraft carrier he served on quite some time ago, and thinking about it in passing. How young he was, stupid, bold, but did the job and well.

Q has so much time, so much potential and this Norwegian Prince was perfect for him even though the agent couldn't trust him, and refused to dwell on the matter for his own sanity.

How did this happen? He thinks, taking a curb and past his car, deciding that a walk would do him well. He loses track of himself, and still ends up getting to their 'spot' early. Garden was a very ambiguous term, there were many of those around here. But theirs, was private, a courtyard near the palace and just the fact that it was _theirs_ made a spot in his chest clench with--- with _something_. He'd never felt so strongly since, well, since he was so young and infallible.

Naive and presumptuous. He swore to never again let it become like this and stormy in his chest. But the one thing the agent failed to realize, that as a man his age and full of experience, he could brace himself against the winds and navigate the violent waves. Q, was another story, a different person altogether.

But in the very least, Seven was capable enough to see that Q was a different person. That thought was cemented by the sight of the prince settled on a bench and drawing in a journal. It was covered with roof preventing from ice and water, and surrounded a small fire pit with embers gently cracking in afternoons pearl light. He wore his favorite worn trousers, a pair of oxfords with terrible scuffing. An old sweater that kept sliding down from where he rolled it up on his elbows along with a collared shirt that Bond could have sworn looked familiar albeit much to big for the man.

When it hits him, watching him afar, crisp white skin that seemed to match the scenery and the horrific sweater. Chocolate curls that appeared darker than Bonds first cup of coffee in the morning; the blue stripes on the undersides of the sleeves, small golden embroidery at the wrists, a missing button on the collar of the right side.

It was Sevens shirt.

Q lets them fall again with a little resigned sigh, continuing to write away in his leather bound book with proper cursive. Surprised not to see a laptop, until the agent feels a pinprick of rain. Ah, not very good for a hard drive.

"What a sight this is." Bond says deep and audible, Q doesn't even look up from his place. But even underneath the mop of hair, the flush to his skin is noticeable.

"Whatever sight is that?" Q quips back as if unaware.

"You're early." A pause, tilting his head with humor in his ice like eyes. "And you don't have a laptop perched nearby." Bond makes his way through a few of the still-alive hedges of the garden. Tucking his hands into his pockets for warmth instead of arranging any closer.

"Correction." Q says leisurely, "You, are late, Seven." Taking his smart phone and waking the screen to show Bond that he was in fact 4 minutes late and the thought alone, that Q out did him once again. Well, serves him right, innit?

"Touche." Bond replies, "I'm sorry for the terse formalities in the foyer. Things have been, well, a bit gossipy, if I do say so myself." Explaining, because true that was half of it. But even the agent couldn't have let a face like that go on so melancholy.

"Ah." A knowing look on Q's face, almost apologetic.

"It's not your fault." Quickly coming to his highness' defense. "They've all a mind their own, unfortunately." A half joke, Q takes up on easily. "Yes, of course, I just wish all of them could do my bidding, my very own minions, wouldn't that be amazing?" Rolling his eyes. "I imagine most of your days would be filled with twice the amount of 'leave me alone you confounding wanker.'" Bond says monotonously for effect, drawing the most absolutely gorgeous sounding laughter of Q. Hence, halting him from any intelligent speech for the next five minutes. So he hides the fact with a gaze around the foliage, and as he does it begins a downpour of rain. Falling straight down and missing them by inches due to the cover. Bond smiles at it, it's, not so bad, despite preferring sunny beaches but being here with Q, made this, memorable.

Q seems less than pleased. "All this and all it ever is. Between this dreary weather and school I might just go mad."

"That's what you get for living in England." Bond hums, and when there's no reply he actually turns his head to look at Q. The moisture in the air seemed to make his curls slump a bit against his forehead. But his face is positively inquisitive, thoughtful, pale flesh and almost innocent if it weren't for the brimming intelligence palpable to his trained eyes.

"If you could be, anywhere in the world then? Where would you want to go?" Bond asks, slyly.

Of course, the younger man, not a master of his emotions just yet seemed to want to say something...else. But when he spoke next, it was clear.

"Greece."

Bond smirks at that, "Greece, well, it gets cold there as well..."

"But not nearly as cold. And the beaches, the islands, the crisp white and rugged seaside. I imagine I'd love to go sailing along the coast. See its history in a few weeks time. Much rather do that than go to bloody _Scotland_ for the holiday." Said with disgust, nose scrunching up in his display. 

"Now now, Q, say anything, but you disregard a mans roost, well; I cannae think'it'a square go." Slipping into his home dialect effortlessly, Q's mouth falls open. "Oh sod it all to hell, you're a _monster_." Covering his face, but he can't hide the flush on his cheeks. Hide the sarcasm in his tone.

"Loch-ness? So cliche." Bond goes to try and tug the hand away from his face by his wrist. "Oi!" Q squeaks, Bond laughs, "And to think, you loved _all_ of the United Kingdom."

Q finally wriggles away and huffs, which leaves a bit of fog in the air, both of them realizing they'd fogged his glasses too.

"Well Scotland is buggering cold, and the people eat haggis, surely you've noticed..."

"No, No, you're right. As always, after such a long time away, my tastes have certainly changed from blithering old Scotland." He explains, then picks the glasses right off of Q's face, taking a handkerchief out of his jacket to clean the lenses for the lad. Who leans in to retrieve them right as Seven leans up for him. This, ultimately leads to closeness that wasn't premeditated. Shocking the both of them still, silent.

Q leans in, he want's this, he shouldn't, this is foolish, this is childish and unfair but his phone starts to play _Stargate:Atlantis_ music. It's ringing, he gives a weathered laugh. Straightening out his glasses on his own. "Another time, Seven?" The phone laid on the small garden table before them. Sverre's name a glaring sign in his face to leave.

"Of course. I'll, see you later then?"

"Hello..." Q answers, but smiles a little. A sad thing. Regret in every flicker of his lashes before he gives Bond a soft nod in the positive. Signalling for the agents departure.

"Why, yes, it has been. Not to mention the trouble with Trigonometry." He answers to the phone, to _Sverre._

_All is as it should be._

The first tick on the proverbial clock, he walks down the cobble and the clicking reverberates like beating heart in tune with his own. Or he's mad, impossible, but the thudding is so delirious it smacks against his vertebra, his solar plexus. And it's surreal through a house elegant and refined, Q following him 10 meters or so at length and just barely enough to hear.

"I passed with near perfect scores if that's what you're implying." Q answers on the phone, not even pretending to avert his gaze from the agents shoulders. The primly cut blonde hair. Bond stops at the opening of the foyer, and the reverb in the room lets his voice trail. Gives Seven a moment to listen in effortlessly as he grabs his phone and texts Alec.

"Tonight? Whatever do you think I'm going to do tonight?" A dry laugh, "Study of course. There is always more a scientist can learn, Sverre." It was hard not to become fond of the man who you damn well talked to every night. Who texted you when he couldn't, sweet nothings, somethings, all in between. They could recite Shakespeare and joke on the ridiculousness of it, and snog then just cuddle warm and naked without any fear of Q having to do anything he didn't want to.

A low chuckle, humor, "Why of course darling, next weekend, absolutely." Q hums. And despite it all, he told Sverre of his asexuality and the man... well he reacted marvelously.

He remembers it as if it were yesterday... when it was just the two of them in a upper tier dorm room belonging to none other than Sverre. The naked sprawl, tangling of limbs. Q wasn't even remotely aroused (as always) in the physical sense even. "Asexual...why that's..." Q shrugged and awaited the scrutiny.

"Oh my god, and after all the innuendo I've thrown around in passing. You must think I'm a damn sex addict..."

Which started the conversation, Q enjoyed sex for other reasons, not the ways most people would quote 'enjoy.'

"I rather like your dirty flirting, the accent makes it cheekier." The prince sticks out his tongue a little, the other prince responds by kissing him, before pulling back to a wondering face. Q almost pouting.

"So kissing is?"

With laughter, "Don't you dare stop." Pulling Sverre over top of him and the rest of the night was lovely in more ways than one.

It felt good, superb even. He cared for the man, dearly, treated him well as he is treated in kind.

But he did not love him.

Which lead to the sound of clicking keys as he tries to research more into the night, play _Overwatch_ , watch _Netflix_ , nothing helped him steady. Studying was out of the question, he falls asleep at his desk. Drifting into his keyboard until the screen went blank with frustration. A perfect mirror of the young genius' mind at the moment.

_There's tangled sheets, but its not his room. It's in a room he's never been before, never seen. And the legs in question seem interestingly familiar. Slick, sticky noises that Q cringes at inwardly but when he realizes. This warm feeling, pooling in his stomach, and on his lips, digging into muscle. God its rich, thick, muscle and pectorals with the scars he'd seen very few times. "Q." The breathy voice, deep and delicious says his name in a way he'd never heard it before._

_He's hard, ridiculously so, panting, slowly rutting against-- James._

_"James." He speaks, slicking up with precome. Desiring him, wanting this, feeling it even, in the deepest part of his chest and mind._

_It feels divine._

"Your highness?"

What?

"Q?"

The Prince wakes up with a start and nearly falls off his chair, only stabilized by one worried looking Agent who wasn't even supposed to be here. But, alas, here he is.

"Seven?" Asking with wide eyes, without his glasses that currently are upon his keyboard. To which, Seven promptly picks them up and goes about to cleaning them again. "There you are-- is, is everything alright? You spoke my name just a moment before." Then he stops, blinks, realizes, thinks himself an utter cad before straightening out.

"My apologies, I tried knocking if it's all the same--"

"Oh--shut up, Seven." Q groans, rubbing his eyes. Desperately wishing for a moment to, rearrange, himself in the trouser area. This was growing quite impressive, and especially with, oh dear god of course. Of course he'd have a sexual awakening this late in life and for his own bloody body guard.

But no, not _exactly_ that; he looks at James and blinks. Thinking to himself for a moment, so deeply and intricately upon his own self. In the privacy of his room, and in the company of someone he trusted.

He wants James, in every way, every single way. But not anyone else as such. Which, to speak clearly, scared the shit out of him.

"Q?"

"Ah-- excuse me, Seven, it is just-- it's just that I was surprised is all. Pleasantly; is everything alright?" Q acts okay, sure, but Seven isn't bought out. His brows furrow, his jaw locks.

"You're lying."

Q sighs at the accusation. "No seriously, I'm quite well actually. You just-- startled me, is all."

"Cut the bullshit, Q. I've done this job for far too long to be that blind." Selfishly, James continues the question. Unprofessionally, idiotically, he knows he's doing just what he wants and not what is necessary.

"I never said you weren't so perceptive, Seven. But what the hell do you want me to say?" Q's eyes narrow, he lifts his gaze upward and over his glasses to the blur as if to make a point. Actually having him blurry made this next part easier, stupid, but easier.

Bond is confused, at the very severe way the Princes' expression turns.

"Say that I want you?" He comes right out. "You insufferable, egotistical, shit, who is there everywhere I turn? Who looks at me-- you _look_ at me, James." He pleads. "Here I am, just as I said I wouldn't do. Wouldn't use my place to corner you in this way. Just, whatever, it's fine, you probably won't be the first man to make me god-forsaken aroused in every way possible. Probably won't be my first love, and-and--"

The room is quiet, as Q's head sinks, just as he feels he'd sunken, that everything has sunken to an all-time low.

"I'm sorry, just, forget I said any of that--"

"But you're an Asexual."

Q finally looks up, it doesn't make a difference because the cold, calm indifference on his agent is what makes him nervous again. Swallowing audibly, Q nods. "And is that even a problem? I'm an Asexual; Asterisk, one exception applies, see manager for details?" Blinking and looking away, "What difference does it make. I suppose it just feels-- better being able to speak of it sometimes. Not having it all bottled up as I do most everything else, and you know usually you're the one I talk to, about everything, when I can, so--" Rubbing his face, as if it'd clear up the flush skin.

"I am truly sorry, Seven. It's a mess, I know." Not looking up again.

This was a damn test, it was the fates, or god, or whatever forces that exist had set this up for his spoil. This man, who'd fought as an MI6 agent, killed, destroyed, lied, whorred and cheated most all he could; was faced with this.

"What about Sverre? You do seem fond of him. He's good for you, a right prince, something acceptable for public appearance." Making sure his voice is emotionless and monotonous. But at the same time displays mild intrigue with a shrug of his shoulders. Acting, and by the looks of how Q's shoulders sink lower and lower as the minutes pass; effectively.

"You're right, perfect comes to mind, but-- ah-- Seven. He's, you're right, you always are. He's the responsible choice for crown and country, make the world proud. Like my test scores and stupid family legacy. Perfect." But he looks like a kicked pup, finally removing his hands and pushing away gently from his desk.

"Don't worry about this, please, and don't, don't leave because you think you compromise me--"

What happens next, happens so quickly that Q can't make left or right of the world. A hand, fiercely grabs Q by his waist and lifts him up into the most heavenly of snogging. Licks into his mouth once, more than enough to situate a perfect duet of tongues. Back and forth that rises into crescendo, Q wrapping his legs around his waist. Not even a small bit of protest as the shock and surprise drain and become the pooling heat in his belly. "Bond." He moans into the kiss, barely understood. 

Body language and the way Q's lips form against Sevens make it all too easy. A simple few steps a turn and Q is pushed back into his bed, the agent silent besides the low growling groans. Q, a panting, huffing, wreck already. "Seven."

"Quincy." He says, lusty, rough, and absolutely not what he expected; wrecked in kind.

He's lost for this man.


	12. Act2: Taboo

Frantic as their kissing had been, initially; within seconds their movements had become languid and sweet. Bond kissing a line down his neck, taking in the scent of Q. Something final, something concrete and yet built in sand. 

The thought has him pulling back, resting their foreheads together.

"What the hell am I going to do with you?"

A low rumble, Q's fingers tightening into the older mans shoulders. Desperate in his attempts to receive as much affection as possible.

"I feel as if, if I pause for too long, I'll wake up and that'd all been a dream..." He pants dazedly. 

Being a coward in the worst ways had no advantages. Bond just watches as the prince helps rearrange his Henley on his chest for no other reason than to fiddle. But he pays attention to how it feels, the lithe fingers working deftly to keep him in tact. 

"Its been a dream, hasn't it?" He frowns, looking away. Bond should say yes and make his way home. But there's no self preservation left.

"This is as real as it can be." He answers honestly. "I can't be yours and your assigned guard." At least publicly, the media would have a hayday, the public would have both a fit and melt down.

Q frowns, he couldn't just ask Seven to quit could he? Facing the facts, a resigned sigh.

"Whatever I have to do, to keep this, whatever needs to happen. I don't care, I'll do it." 

When Q's lips touch his agents, Bond is at a loss. But much too contented to care. "I love you, James." He whispers, words devoured with tongue and teeth. Bond's face grabbed with two insistent palms, making him forget the problems at hand then drift into every mesmerizing contact.

"Dare I ask how?" Bond, masks his confusion with mirth, a low and taken voice.

"I'll stay with Sverre for public appearance. I'll hold image for Queen and country. Uphold all pomp and circumstances, as it were." Sad, Q looks sad.

He doesn't like it.

"Q, I couldn't ask you..."

"Then don't. You just have your own choices to make James. I don't have time to mosey around. Either I stay with Sverre and merely long for you." Q kisses his lower lip, tugs,  looks into his eyes with hands on the back of his neck and shoulder.

"Or I stay with him _and_ you, for as long as I can. For as long as _we_ can." 

It's so tempting, devilish, wrong even; but a possessive side to the agent roars never, not his, not his prince, only _he_ can have him!

If this is all he is allowed, if this is the chance he has? Reminding himself of sleepless alcohol laden nights without Q, with Q still looking at him like... This.

"As long as we can, Q. As long as we can." He nods, kissing him in second response. Sweet, innocent.

When he pulls back up, he sees little tears welling in Q's eyes. 

"Darling..." Concerned, brows scrunching in dismay.

Q Smiles, "We will never speak of this, okay? There are no tears here and never were." Chucking, Bond smiles at that.

Remembering the same sort of thing from a much younger Q. Bond always had silently agreed.

"Why yes your highness of course, and why would I ever even think of such a travesty?"

Q smirks, "Your highness, aye? I think I rather like it when it's out of your mouth. James." 

A moment uncertain, until legs circle around his waist and he can feel with certainty; Q's erection against his waist.

"Q." He hums, a warning. 

"Yes?" Blinking owlishly as if this wasn't sexual.

Every inch of him says this has to stop, but Q wants this just as much as he does. Bond knows, that as a bonified adult, well over twenty one and on his way to his first PHD; Q has just as much a say and any further protesting would really make this unfair for both of them.

Sure he can remember Q's upbringing, yet it's more like fond memories. Watching a very dear friend grow up.

"Not tonight." Bond shakes his head, can't believe these words are coming out of him of all things. 

Q looks shocked and confused, then resigned and sleepy.

"And yet, you will stay the night?" 

Bond nods gently, "If that's an invitation. Of course." A smirk.

"And if it's not?"

"I suppose I can take an extra shift in guarding your quarters tonight..."

"Oh my god you're going to be one of _those_ types. I should have hypothesized this-- back to the drawing board I suppose." Tisking about in a sarcastic manner, his eyes full of playful mirth. 

The agent can't remember a time when he had felt this happy. 

 The room was warm, they stripped to their pants and slipped under covers. Bond made sure to give every ounce of affection he could offer. Including the press of an angry hard-on he had no control over.

"Please don't-- in the morning, don't leave without a goodbye. It is-- well-- I just want--"

Bond silences him with a passionate kiss.

"I have work tomorrow, that is the only reason why I'm not throwing you over your preposterously large beg and shagging you so well you're thinking of me every time you so much as sneeze, for a week."

Q moans at that, literally moans.

A wolfish sort of crooked grin spreads on Sevens face. 

"James..."

"Yes darling?" 

"Shut the hell up and let me sleep. You need to work and I have studying to do." 

He chuckles, "Yes, your highness."

A groan of disgruntled bliss, the prince finds solace curled up against his--- his agent.

 

* * *

 

 

Mary was being a fucking annoying little shit on the private jet. James sat in the corner on the security seating right along side Alec whom he really hadn't spoken to in a few days. 

Interestingly enough coinciding with the night he and Q became, a thing, so to speak.

Every Christmas carol ever invented was being sung, and loudly, by the princess. 

Bond is gazing fondly yet Q looks as if he's going to throw his sister out of the window.

"Oh for pity's sake! Now I realize why we have security on a private plane!" He groans. Their queen mother was already in Scotland, so here they were meeting up and in their nice clothes for public penchant. 

 Alec is smiling, covering his mouth in attempt to hide a laugh. Bond is straight faced, watching the show.

But also, Q, with his combed hair and elegant suit in a shade of charcoal. Paired with a deep emerald azure green that made his eyes stand out, making him try to calm his heartbeat. 

Not that anyone would notice, or that James knew his prince was just as enamored with what was before him. 

Behind the curtain, a small service section with an attendant who walks out to serve the princess her meal. A small chat between them ensues.

This is also were the restroom is located. So Q gets up and walks to the back, Bond follows as well, casually rounding the curtain. Before Q can make it into the small stall. A hand slips around the princes' and the agent silences any shocked sound with his mouth in a bruising, but short, kiss.

A cheeky smile, pulling away to seem completely inconspicuous just in time for the attendant to reappear.

"Are you alright, sir?"

"I think he is, I followed out of concern but he's just fine. If you need anything your highness, please don't hesitate to ask." With that he dodges out to his seat. 

Q shakily enters the bathroom and stares wide eyed at the way he looks after such a brief encounter. 

Rubbing the rouge off his cheeks in vain, using the toilet, then after a quick wash to his face his highness makes it back to his seat. 

Bond ever the stoic professional.

Even as they get to Scotland, Q is shocked into an embarrassing squeak when just as soon as they enter his bedroom the agent pounces.

Kissing him deliriously, deep and almost rushed as if they didn't have the entire night to be together.

"You're off tonight?" Q asks blinking with lust glazed eyes, breathless from the assault.

"Switched shifts with a friend. Told them I'm meeting some friends at a pub, never get a chance to meet the chaps from 'back home.'" A sly grin gifted with a cheeky one right back.

"You're incorrigible." The prince is back to kissing his agent, pressed against his bed with a slight feeling of _deja vu_.

"I can't spend the night." He says, Bond looks apologetic. "I can stay most of it, but I'll have to leave rather late."

The disappointment was palpable, Q looks forlorn. "I only just got you, and I can't even keep you for the night." He sighs, Bond traces his weathered fingers down Q's cheek. "I'll stay as long as I can." He promises, brows pursed with playful curiousity as deft hands start to undo his belt then slide up to untuck his shirt and start with the buttons.

"Q... are you sure? Tonight?" Already beyond aroused, pushing up against the other mans abdomen as Q effortlessly gets his jacket down to his wrists with a swift tug. The prince huffs a bit of laughter, "I've been sure about this for over 4 years, Seven, just fuck me already." Bond chuckles in response, mirroring the actions with his own practiced undressing techniques. Q was wearing crimson pants, boxer briefs, with black trim and it's completely adorable, Seven hums in contentment at the sight. 

"Who am I to deny such a request?" Sly, as in one deft movement he's licking him from base to his neck, unable to get enough of the Prince who mewls in pleasure, writhing, grinding up into his lover. "Seven, oh, bloody hell, yes--" A gasp when he feels fingers trace the curve of his arse.

"Oh shit, I forgot the--"

Bond closes his mouth with his own, and in the pocket of his trousers that he's now kicking off, he held a small travel sized bottle of sorts. Wiggling it in front of Q's face.

"This?"

A condom too, laying it beside them, and Q almost sighs in relief but the agent is back to laving his tongue over all the parts in his neck that truly undo him. "You had-- you had that in your pocket all day?" He says in shock, gasping.

"I'm always prepared, for anything."

He thinks he's going to lose his mind with how slow this is going, when wet fingers start grazing his entrance. Shaking him into reality, he was going to do this, this was happening, Seven wanted him just as much as he wanted Seven and this felt like a dream. Seven must of sensed this because he comes up for breath out of the crook of his slender neck, careful not to leave a mark no matter how much he wanted to.

"Darling, are you alright?"

Q nods, face going flush. "This is hardly my first time... it's just..."

"I understand."

Looking up at the older man to make sure, but he's met with steely silver eyes filled with wisdom according to the situation. Fingers that were careful, started slicking up his entrance, perfectly, wringing his wrist and slipping finger by finger until he can get three down to the knuckle. The sensation was incredible, torturous, hips meeting those fingers already drawing a deep chuckle from his agent above.

"So eager, and we've barely even started..."

Q pouts, "That's because you're taking too bloody long."

"Now now, patience, your highness." A down right devious look as Bond begins to take him, twisting and preparing him with so much practiced movement Q's head falls back and his eyes go wide with desire. Wincing at the weird sounds his body makes in the process, thinking about that for a moment, was that? Was that sexy for most people-- it sounded like someone chewing bubble gum or, stirring pasta. Bond must of noticed his mind wandering, because he laughs a little, "Asexuals, such interesting creatures." He says, licking down to Q's nipple which garners another moan.

"I don't know, you just, you're different you make me--" Bond covers his mouth again with his own, the prince melts against the tongue tying and then he's being stroked into full hardness. Usually he's not so fond of people touching him here, normally he focused more on the other person as it was only logical. But here he was, wanting more, more, anything he could get from this incredible man.

"Oh my god, Seven you've spent fifteen minutes just preparing me. Are we ever going to get a move on?"

"Maybe, how about your hold your pretty, tight, arse open for me and I'll see what I can manage."

"Bloody tease."

"Perfect Prat."

"Oh how charming..."

"You're hardly Prince Charming yourself."

"Ta, most certainly not."

Bond looks intrigued, tilting his head a smidge while Q does as was asked, legs spread and holding himself open in missionary with his feet planted firmly on the bed. Oh but the interest turns into scarlet hued desire, eyes darkening, lust radiating around his agent.

"I figure, I'm more Wall-E material."

Said with a straight face, and the both of them laugh, Q was the funniest man he'd ever known and sometimes he'd have to ignore his jokes during work but remind him later just how funny he was. Instead, he laughs, then with little notice slides his cock between the open cheeks and begins to slowly rut. Pinning the boy down, rubbing in erotic pace. "S-seven!" Breathless between the giggling and the sex.

Feeling the head gently penetrate, uncut, fit, and slick with a condom and lubricant, the princes' chest heaves, almost letting go of himself, but loving the sensation of fullness. Completeness. "Q--fuck-- fuck you're incredibly sexy."

Him? Sexy? Seriously? Q is stunned silent, closing his eyes.

"Don't you dare."

They open full and wide at the demand.

"I want to see your eyes, see your expression as I fill you completely." He says while doing exactly that, slow, careful not to hurt him. When in the moments that followed, exactly that happened. Mind reeling in the moment, "Oh holy bloody hell." Q gasps.

This is different. Bond is different, how? He doesn't know. Who wired his brain like this? He talked himself into thinking it was the unobtainable essence. The give and take of the situation, surely that was what it was. The chase, nothing else. His young brain logically supplied, and then he'd see the man with just the slightest of grins. Have lunch with him, didn't coddle him when he cried but stood there beside him. When he'd look up into those piercing eyes, he could tell it wasn't just because he was paid to be there.

Bond would offer a handkerchief and pretended as if it didn't happen after the fact.

Looking up into those eyes, the man who'd had a serious relationship with England and only her for so damn long. Now picking his pace, holding him close, he leans down with lips to Q's ear.

"You're beautiful."

Q's breath is knocked right out of him at the admission, his heart racing in his chest. "James--"

"Quincy." He asks, cheekily, but when Q grabs back at his shoulders. Holding nothing back, because he could. Knowing eyes, intelligence wicked and brimming. "You're treating me like a virgin. Seven." He huffs, almost haughty if it weren't for the dick in his arse.

"Fuckin' get on with it, make me come." Sharp, posh little voice.

Bond groans, rather loudly, which encourages Q to do what he's always wanted; Pull and grip and tear at the biggest British beef cake since Spy films of this sixties. Wrapping his legs around him tight, locking his ankles. It's the slap of Bond to his hips, wet and visceral. He'd never forget this, how sensual and fantastic this is. Taking himself in his hand like he did a few times past. Releasing in a short spasm, come drenching the both of their abdomen. Bond losing himself with a hiss, a beast sated in the arms of his lover and then some. Hardly breathless, but definitely out of sorts above the Prince who watches with lidded eyes. Stricken with love and euphoria.

"Ugh I'm a damn mess." Q's lashes flutter when his eyes shut, Bond remedies the situation by leaning down and licking up the essence of him right down to every little drop from the tip of his cock. Shocking his eyes right back open, gasping.

"You're-- you're mad!" Even he hates the taste of that stuff, but the agent just snickers.

"Well, it's better than haggis." A shrug, chuckling even when Q rolls his eyes and tosses a small pillow at the man who only begins to laugh louder and this evolves into a naked pillow fight of epic proportions. Wrestling in sheets, making a mess. Bond is certain to toss the condom into the toilet and flush; shove the wrapper in his trouser pocket. Save them from rumors or speculation.

Q doesn't sleep, not really, he lulls in and out of consciousness like a pathetic child waiting for Santa Claus except its the opposite. He doesn't want tonight to end. Even at four A.M, Bond is kissing him sweetly. They'd had a steamy shower and held each other until the water ran cold.

"I don't want you to leave." He says, looking so sad, so much the Agent curses himself at the purity of him. The gentle friendship they shared even greater than before.

"I'll see you tomorrow, darling. I promise."

With a few more languid, chaste, kisses; Bond took off, straightening his jacket and taking the frequently unused path to his quarters.

* * *

 

 His highness wakes up way, way, to early for a Saturday morning. But only to the feeling of another warm body pressed near, his face that lacked his spectacles tiredly roused as a soft hand pries through his curls.

"Q, Love, surprise!" Sverre says, fully clothed thank the lord, but trying to be sensitive to Quincy's space.

"Dear god!" He gasps, sitting straight up in surprise. Almost, he'd almost said 'James?' that would have been a disaster.

But he's clean, and teeth brushed and Seven was sure to make his presence unnoticed of course. As any former spy would manage.

"Are you angry? I know it's sudden but..."

"Oh no, no, I'm not, you just scared me, how are you?" Smiling, trying to catch up with himself; which could admittedly be explained by the sleepiness that he described as unusual jet lag.

They go on a carriage ride that's being paparazzi tormented from afar. Very, very, far, but still it's their ominous presence that leads to his uncomfortable countenance.

But, it is fun.

Especially with Bond making faces when no one is looking. Which is putting it more severe than it really is, Bonds expressions are slight and barely noticeable.

Something about this makes him feel like a terrible, awful, no good, person.

The other part of him, finds the thrill exhilarating, and enjoys the fact that he has something he wants and really, truly, wants. With a push of these thoughts from his mind, Q enjoys the snow and the cold breeze. Even if, technically he wasn't on a date with Bond. It sure as hell felt like one, and it was all that mattered.

 


	13. Holiday

"Oh yes, just what we and everyone else needs. Pictures of us in our natural habitat." Q quips, pausing to pose with a slight but dignified smile. 

"This is hardly your natural habitat, Q." Mycroft hums, perfectly poised as usual.

"I couldn't agree more, brother, far too much out doors not enough books and computers." Mary replies just as smug, but her smile is infectious and lovely just as the young pictures of the Queen were.

Sherlock is completely disinterested, itching for the cigarettes in his pocket. But refrains, posing, albeit still a bit stiff and awkwardly for the camera. The poor thing never got the hang of it. 

John is the only thing that seems to calm him down. Amicable and dashing as he could be when not chasing his husband around London in pitch night.

 "Well that's the thing, Q makes a better scientist for sure. But, just look at him, he screams royalty... Mary too." A nod, cheerful for the better part of photo taking. A settling countenance for the man beside him.

It's tradition, Christmas photos, pretty snowy pictures. Gallivanting corgis, and the talk of the nation; Q.

Sherlock, bless his soul, steps forward and yells "Royalty!" Then steps back, "Do I fit the bill now?" Impeccably dry tone, the queen nearly dropped her hat.

"Sherlock." Not really a yell, just a scold and even Seven, further off in the corner of the room stiffened.

Not that Sverre, who just entered the room, helped with that. The Norwegian prince crosses his arms and watches pleasantly.

"Ah, the Christmas photos. I'll be returning towards the end of the week for my family's own little photo opportunity."

Talking to Seven as if the agent cared. "Q is, so beautiful." Shaking his head. "Sometimes I wonder if I even deserve a man like him. He's right fit to be king." Sverre turns toward him, looking uncertain, almost forlorn, "You've known Q all his life, well, mostly... Do you think he'll continue on as King?"

Now it was impossible for Bond to be cross and jealous with the man. Not with how he behaved, not with how Q's cheating on him.

As he opens his mouth to make a statement something in his mic, the ear piece, makes whirring noise; he doesn't touch it. 

What happened next would have been a blur to everyone on board, within seconds of his own alert, Alec moves in as well. Storming in from the opposite side of the yard, of course, not so far away. Mycroft, the eldest brother, already can sense the impending disorder. The aura, turns from semi-sweet, to absolutely bitter, as Bond feels a ticking in his chest.

_You have to get Quincy safe, you have to get him safe, safe._

But his orders are clear;

**/CodeRogerAlpha:/-/Remove. Threat. 99blue./**

It's the look in Q's eyes, the horror in green so pure he can barely stand it, that makes everything clearer now. Never was there a rough situation, that helped him think even more thoroughly than ever before.

It's the sound of indignation he makes, on the way to the bunker of the shelter nearby; a palace underground if you will. Alec, Three, and Ten holding over half of the Royal family there; and Bond with the Queen and Mary. He's only more than relieved that Sverre was taken to the embassy immediately, and not lingering around to stress him out even more. The ladies' bunker, was formed on the opposite side of the palace and was originally created for communities nearby during WWII. Redone now, as a safe haven for the royal family.

It's the feeling of his cell phone going mad in his side pocket, vibrating, a temptation to take it and answer. Text the darling, explain. But he's not permitted, his orders are clear.

 

Roger. Alpha: Highest chain of authority

Remove: Leave your current location immediately.

Threat: Mid-level security threat.

99blue: Code word of the week, used randomly to secure that this source and information was secure.

 

He knows what he must do now.

* * *

 

 

The sound of BBC news is blaring in the parlor, the entire, exhausted, Royal family sits in their preferred seats and watches while Mary fiddles with her phone. Q is, however, standing behind them holding himself with his arms in a way that makes Bond's insides decay. His own shift, is well over and done with, so he heads up to Q's room while they watch.

 

**Reporter Shaniqua Davidson:** _Today, at around 8A.M, a threat was received from Police sources with references to supposed biochemical explosives. On twitter with hashtag relations towards the royal family, a random user by the name of GreenOrgoHome008, made the threat earlier that morning. But follow up tweets reveal earlier attempts at violent behaviors. Two crimes have been tied to this user, that police sources say, have been placed under arrest. The persons identity is not for public knowledge at this time._

_The Queen and her family, whom, as we all know are on holiday in Scotland. Were promptly escorted for safekeeping. Watch, security, police, and well wishes all have increased in kind..._

 

Mycroft, with his undone jacket, looking understandably disheveled.

"Do we always take threats on a twitter feed so seriously?"

Q scoffs, "No, you prat, we take the ones seriously when committed by felons."

"Oh yes, seems like a mystery to me. I wonder what else this criminal has done that made him so popular." Sherlock says, eyes closed, as he thinks about it more. Before anyone can speak further, a breathless blonde man enters the room.

"Sherlock, oh, bloody hell, your here. Thank god." John gasps, which alerts Sherlock out of his little mind palace. Fingers splayed and tented before his face, until that very voice shocks him of his reverie. Mycroft groans, "Why must everyone in this house be so, homosexual."

Mary shoots him a look, Mycroft deflates, standing up proper. "I'm going to clean, and get to bed. Mister and Mister Holmes." A nod of his head at the two. Sherlock ignores him entirely for going to John, only to be pummeled into a hug. "Security at the airport took me aside and wouldn't for the life of me say why. I didn't get here until all but ten minutes ago..."

"Did you give them a hard time?" Sherlock asks, slyly.

"Well of bloody course I did! They took me and said not a word for three hours..."

A smile blossoms on the curly haired man, he holds him closer, a little awkwardly to boot.

Q, was lost watching the two so happy together, which reminded him of his agent whom he needed to greet upstairs.

"Goodnight mum." Q kisses her cheek from behind the sofa, before sneaking off to his room in quiet concentration.

He thinks of things like Bond, Sverre, school, his life choices; not all were good decisions. The thought of breaking it off with Sverre, began to sound more plausible. What would carrying on like this benefit even on his own side of things? But then hiding James from everyone would become so difficult to bear. Something however, after today, after the look in James' eyes even from afar made it staple down within somehow.

Walking faster to his room, Q begins to build himself up for this. Grabbing his phone; he'd at least call him, not text or something stupid like that. But, seeing as both of them lead such busy lives this sounded practical. Yet, before he could even dial or enter his room, Bond seemingly shows from nowhere.

"Q."

 

The noise gives him a near heart attack, his eyes widen. James is standing there, and its a dream come true. A relief to be honest, Q steps forward and grabs Bond's hand tugging him into his room for some privacy from any prying eyes that may be prone to snooping. With a soft sigh, he relaxes marginally, "I've been wanting to talk to you all day..." Tired, "Should we get ready for bed, first, or should we talk?"

Sounding almost hesitant, because the look on Bond's face is unreadable. Dark even, colder than usual even when they're out on the town and not in disguise.

"Q, we shouldn't do this."

Quincy's mouth nearly falls open, but he keeps a cool and calm demeanor but only just. Brows pursing in visible confusion, unable to hide the hurt in his eyes despite the spectacles. "James..."

"Your highness, whatever we had before, I've done a great disservice. I'll admit, Quincy, I find you sexually pleasing. But to say anything else, would be a lie, and only do you further harm." Said so perfectly, even the young prince couldn't discern the truth from lie. But then again he listens with widened eyes.

"Explain."

Bond shrugs, "What else is there to?"

"You told me-- you--" Squinting, wincing, thinking of the intimacy there. The privilege he gave Bond, trusted him with.

"I've not had a proper partner in some time, even in my age and experience, I couldn't figure out what it was. I've only ever been romantically involved with women, you were an obvious outlier, that shouldn't have happened, because it isn't fair to you." Explaining so simply, then taking a deep breath, as if it pained him, but only as it would quitting a job or paying a parking meter long past overdue.

Q, unable to hide the moment of destitution from his face simply nods slowly. "Ah."

"I see, well, this makes sense. Absolutely, James-- Seven." Correcting himself, a watery smile that straightens out into a flat line.

"Q..." Bond, now appearing guilty, frowning a bit. "I can leave, you don't have to..."

"No-- No you don't just get to tell me you lied and faked and were--" A bitter chuckle, "--confused, and then leave." Shaking his head, Q does the most selfish thing he can think of. Embarrassed, cold, unwanted, lonely.

"You-- in the very least I thought of you as my friend. But you're just like the lot of the aren't you? Using me, using my trust." Wiping a spare tear from his face, but refusing to break down in front of the older man.

Bond says nothing.

"I _command_ you to stay."

Quincy's voice is so powerful, it makes James regret any sort of doubt in Q's reign before.

"Stay, and work for my family until you die. Until you're so old you can't breath and your heart stops. Do as my family says, my mother, and of course me." Snarling, his ears and cheeks red with embarrassed disgrace. "And if you ever, if you ever, lie to me again. Lie to my family again, I swear upon all that lives and breaths, the crown I'm forced to wear, you'll rot in a solitary black cell, and never see the bloody light of day again." Clipped, he points to his door.

"Now get the fuck out of my room. Seven."

James straightens his suit, "Yes, sir."

Q watches and waits, for anything, a sign that this was all a joke, a lie upon a lie. Upon further study, Bond expresses nothing but sheer professionalism. Walking out of the room as if it were just another call. Duty and circumstance, all that. Q shivers, allows himself to break in his absence.

Rubbing his hands across his hot face, when all he can feel is the cold shame of disgrace. Tremors wreck his body, pulling him to wrap his arms around himself, his best and truest friend betrayed him so deeply. So completely. His glasses thump to the carpet, and he stumbles into his bed. Missing the bed, and making it to the edge for his face to bury. With fingers clenched in expensive duvet, he gasps out a sob. Letting himself fall apart like he'd never before, the first real heartbreak he'd ever known, that he'd ever know and he was sure of it.

This pain, so extreme, he knew he could never afford to let this happen again. Not like this. He rubs his eyes off and slips his head sideways for air. But it feels stale, stagnate, and hints of Bond's aftershave in the air. Which was ridiculous, honestly, get a hold of yourself.

With a deep shuddering breath between tears, Q sits up on the floor, back to his box-spring and mattress. Sitting there in silent misery, as he tries to dull out the pain without liquor or cigarettes.

He falls asleep there.

* * *

 

 

Bond slips into the large halls, and down to the kitchens for a Heineken. Only to stop, and see the Queen. It's a moment of deja vu, she's in her pajamas eating hot cereal with a tumbler of expensive brandy.

"Your majesty." The agent greets, and she seems to have noticed him without even raising her head. "Seven, I expected you gone for the night." Almost, almost hinting something that makes his shoulders stiffen. "Pardon me, your majesty?" Nothing rude about it, just honestly taken.

"You, Quincy, why I figured you'd become an item. Although I must say, Sverre, that's confusing, what's all that about?" Just, as if she were speaking of the weather. Her book propped open and kept that way with a _maltesers_ packaged straightened to perfection.

If it were possible, his shoulders grew even more rigid as she basically stated everything as if it were obvious.

"Oh no worries dear, no one else knows. Not even Moneypenny, which, by the way she offers her happy holidays; she's with family for the month."

"..."

The Queen stares, a brow raised, "What's happened?"

"We're no longer an item. As of now." Bond says firmly, sliding hands into his pockets.

They share a look, it's longer than most of the gazes they share. Calculative and introspective, both, in their own regards.

"Is he going to be alright?"

Bond, doesn't answer.

"He'll be better, without this, in the future."

She sighs, "That's a decision between the both of you, and not for me to judge. Despite what anyone may think, I leave his relationships to himself as long as he's safe." Sharing a knowing look. "But, I suppose, time will tell. Just know, that whatever you both should choose. Be careful."

"Yes, Majesty."

"Now, Happy Christmas and good night, Seven."

Although there were a few weeks till the holiday's eve, he shares the sentiment and walks out of the kitchen. Guilt eating his soul alive, just as the cold of the patio does. Snow began to fall even harder than it had in the past few days. He stares out into the snowy darkness and moors, only to think over her Majesty's words; before letting them go. Wash over and fall into nothingness, like flakes into white cold mass.

He'd never be the same again, and he didn't even know it.


	14. Peppermint Lacrymosa

Furiously be stirs biscuit dough with the anger of a scorned 15 year old boy playing Mario Kart. This insidious disposition left the darkest of auras in a solemn cloud over the entire castle.

Maids and Cooks, chauffeurs and sculleries; all left him alone instead of perusing the dry banter they'd missed with the young prince.

Who'd been prone to shouting fits, and shutting the door much too harshly. Screaming into his pillow at night until he stopped crying and all there were was desert screams and tremors in his chest.

Even so, with his deepest heartbreak, Q tried all he could to uphold dignity in the face of his peers. His family, and anyone else other than himself.

Dolloping up perfect round tablespoons of the chocolate mint mixture, Q remembers, absentmindedly, what it was to be loved. Slipping into bittersweet memory, licking chocolate off his fingers.

It's the same thoughts he has at cream tea with his mother.

She dips the biscuits into her steaming cup of English breakfast. Amicably nibbling away at the confectioneries Q made with perfection.

"You're wandering dear, eat something will you? At least for my own health." A sigh, a pointed look at her son.

The room was jocund, opulent with the Christmas decorations he can't remember ever having changed. Yet, so much has, and it's reflection jars him. 

"I've had a rough week, Mum."

Just the fact that he says that, has her promptly placing her tea to the saucer.

"Darling, whatever happened?"

Q fumbles with the handle of his ever cooling cuppa. "It's not... It's over now and perhaps for the best." A bittersweet frown on his face.

"Ah, so it is Seven, then."

Q tries to not jostle and give himself away, but as all things are with his mother, he fails.

A soft nod, stern eyes, "Even the older are not always wiser, my dear. But heavens, what did you expect?"

Looking darker, but not raising his tone in the slightest; Q answers.

"Honesty, at the very least." Clearing his throat to cover a whimper. "Honesty."

A torn look that flashes the moment it arrived. "Darling, you're far too young and far too intelligent to let a man turn you into a pile of ash from rejection..."

He opens his mouth, she raises an open palm at him to yield.

"You're also too young to file away into a relationship just because it's what would be 'proper' or acceptable." A pointed look, instantly melting the cold Prince.

"You make it sound as if it's all so incredibly easy..."

Fondness replaces the scolding quality, filling him with warmth.

"I've only met heartbreak over a dozen times. But forcing my own hand to someone I did not want, was almost my undoing. Don't take your life's choices lightly."

Staring in awe, "How did you..."

She leans in, a smile on her face through wafting steams of tea. 

"Don't be dishonest to yourself, and don't ever let them see you break."

Sitting back into her seat, and starting into the other half of her sandwich.

Q's own smile couldn't be any warmer, even with the fresh cup of earl grey brought to him like clock work.

 

* * *

"Sverre, we, need to talk. I want to be honest with you..."

Q's voice is strong, unwavering, determined, and yet... Kind. His highness had no idea that Bond came to this very same snow covered balcony every night. But he didn't care, taking a drag and blowing smoke into the frozen night.

"You are quite possibly the kindest, gentlest, sweetest of men... I've ever had the pleasure of meeting." A gentle smile in his countenance.

"But I can't continue on, drawing you in, cruelly, I've realized. It'd be unfair to you,  to give you the impression that I still want to continue a relationship."

Harsh cold on one ear, the other warm with the heat of his phone making an awkward shiver roll up his spine.

 "This is goodbye, I'm afraid and I... I can't say sorry enough. The timing and I..."

Sverre sounded obviously disappointed, but admitted to no hard feelings only, apologies.

Q curled his arms around himself, phone back in his jacket pocket. Cigarette wafting from the left arm resting on his other.

Silent tears, stream down his face as his shoulders shake with sobs. But he stays quiet, and Bond knows. Quiet shadow in the darkness grown cold as a statue in the face of something so heart breaking his own fierce protectiveness growls in his chest like a violent wild animal.

But he's cold and unmoving.

Wiping his face, Q stomps out the rest and walks back into the castle. All without realizing the Agent was there, his own brooding. Undeserved as it was.

 

* * *

 

_"Flight unfailing, these are the poems of holiday wisdom._

_Brush your teeth twice a day for a week, fly in patterns unforeseen._

_If sparrows flight has never been, cold, like the holiday air and torn up packaging._

_Perspective of these, I'll properly demise the flock and murder._

_Feathers in hats, coats, wreaths, wisdom grants me this; I am not a fowl or a descent score of pheasant. I cannot fly, I cannot lure you with feathers. But I do not have teeth, and my whereabouts shall never be known."_

_Q reads out the very next day to his mother and sister in the parlor at tea. Alec was on duty today, standing ever so diligently at guard in the spacious room._

_A silvery gray day, snow falling in the midst of a grandiose view._

_James however, was on his way to the queen to discuss Christmas operations. When he was stunned with crisp voice that drained his lungs of the air he craved for._

_"True it was, the sunshine in loom. Woven and coarse, I look through windows of blue. Devastation._

_I want balconies of silver, defiance, darkness._

_Sunshine is now a curse, false it is."_

 

Mary scoffs, "So dreary, goodness Q. Who's the author? Poe?"

"Me, you buffoon. And if I'm so dreary, why are you shoving biscuits down your throat like a cow?"

"Silence, both of you." The Queen hums, both of them going silent with huffs of apologetic air.

 "It is lovely, dear, but a bit dreary. Do you have anything more..."

Mary, ignorant in the events that have passed in the last few days, swoons and claps her hands together.

"--Something romantic? Perhaps?"

The kind queen gives a look at Q, wondering if she should intervene. Her poor son appears startled. Luckily he's not facing the door to see Alec's frown.

With a sip of tea to hide her disdain, Q gives her a solid look of strength refined.

Flipping his journal until he gets to the very page in the middle. 

He counted them, numbered them, chose this page long ago.

 

_"Nothing compares to the universe and its design. Of smoothed planets, rugged topography, symmetry in time._

_I could sail the sea, you at my side, to find the roundest Pearl and pluck it from the throat of anything by boat. You're breath, it is brine and sweet._

_Your presence ground, under my feet. I found no folly, no mirth or holly could compare to you._

_Not in beauty, I never said. You're eyes shine precarious red, you are deep and harsh like the coldest typhoon. Certain storms like angry blue._

_No, it is not in your sturdy dependence I digress. At best, you're second best. But my hearts fine eye, is forever aligned, with the design of your desire._

_I'd drown there in your affection, willingly, ardently, and in this... Nothing can compare."_

 

Bond had just walked in before he started reading, about to switch duties with Alec. He stops and watches the back of the princes curly head.

Voice sweet and passionate, poetry in just his form and shoulders. The agents heart wreaks havoc on his chest, bouncing up into his solar plexus. 

 "By God, that's brilliant Bruv!" She smiles wickedly bright. Awestruck, as the queen sends a knowing look over Q's shoulder with a sip of tea at hand. 

Bond, who's being prodded by Alec to snap out of it; finally does just that and stands at post. 

Her majesty smiles, "Well done darling, absolutely wonderful." And even Mary agrees in tandem. Prying him about his ideas until he's had enough, standing to excuse himself.

When he turns to see Bond he nearly falls over, to which his sister helps him.

"Q! Are you okay?" 

"Ah, er, yes, lost my footing a bit that's all... Good evening." Awkward, stepping diligently to his balcony of choice. Deciding to chain smoke, as nasty habit when he's desperate and stressed.

He hears a balcony door from across the courtyard open, nearly leaves until the sound of strings enchants the yard with music refined.

Sherlock is playing.

It reminds him of his first dancing lesson.

_Mycroft was playing the piano, a spring day at Buckingham, the courtyard alive with roses and the fountain somehow younger. As if only ten years gave it the age of ancient persuasion. Sherlock, whom argued loudly in his room with a violin teacher insisting that he was all wrong about their approach. Fondly, Quincy listened until a precise voice stunned him off the bench and out of a reverie._

_He doesn't remember what was said, words are always fleeting. It was the hand outstretched in chauffeurs gloves that he did so see, soft and delighted laughter in older stormy eyes. He'd just turned seventeen, and right here James taught him how to dance in the symphony of music-less sounds. Feint piano that seemed to dalliance off in certain measures, unpracticed practice._

_Stepping on toes, was not such a terrible thing. He remembers, how warm it was and how the cool breeze caressed his face. Had anyone else offered their hand to teach him to dance, he surely would have protested. But here in his arms, he learned to first dance and the older man was polite in all ways. Symmetry, distance, propriety and cunning; laughing at Q when his face blustered crimson. Teaching him to Waltz and more, Q could have never asked for a better teacher._

Brought back to life with the sharp and harsh notes after the stanza, Quincy is clouded with fog and the thoughts of the past. If all could melt away into spring in his heart, perhaps this cold feeling would leave his chest. A wild idea strikes him, he looks up an then quickly, he's scurrying back into the house, down the stairs, out the door without a coat, in tangerine dusk light. 

Snow over everything but the small brick cross-walkway in the middle of the yard. 

All he wears are flimsy house loafers, but he doesn't care. It's _'Lacrymosa'_ , his very favorite. Trying to blow off his stress, frustration and despair... Q does a waltz with an invisible partner. Better than one that leaves you, he supposes, and this terrible feeling of inadequacy fills his stomach. For once he misses the unknown, the scientist in him has always sought out an answer for everything in unquenched thirst. And now, he's faced with the undeniability that despite all his upbringing and intelligence the person he respected and trusted had wounded him so.

Looking up at the opposite balcony once in a while to see if Sherlock will still be playing. They lock eyes, so his older brother repeats the song, both smiling cheerfully albeit the heavy atmosphere.

Another sound of a door opening, it's in the room below Sherlock's; Mycroft opened the double doors. Settling at the piano. Joining without a word, which makes the other two laugh in surprise. They don't stop their orchestration, their performance as Mycroft picks up the Baritone of the chords in cue. It was simply, reticent art-form of brothers united... for once.

Their family slowly started to congregate, even Mary who joins him for a dance; giggling, the lot of them. Not even Q, realizes James Bond watching them dutifully in the window next to the Queen herself, and John who stares in subtle admiration.

To the crown prince, dancing elegantly in austere elegance, it was a painting for their guard. Who felt the very pangs of heartbreak, guilt, and desire...at the sight of Quincy.

James circles the courtyard, watching through glass windows, without even leaving the castle itself. Just to watch Quincy at any angle he could.

When the music fades to a stop, Q pulls from his sister. Mary, offers him a handkerchief with nothing but pity in her eyes. He's dabbing at his face, despite the soft smile he wears. Bitter with pain, no doubt; and it's all intriguing until the agent is stunned out of his thoughts with a sharp voice of the Queen. She's finely dressed, even in her evening clothes.

"James, what ever did you do?"

"Majesty..."

"Mother, that is enough."

Actually making the Queen jump, Quincy is standing there with Mary on his arm who had taken up the duty of comforting her older brother. Now, however, a very hesitant look crossed her face. Sherlock, a bit breathless came up behind them both unknowingly interrupting.

"Sheryl, lets go get a cuppa shall we?" John had heard the commotion, but intelligently, he stayed the hell out of that crock pot of disaster. "But-but John, we were just getting to the good bits..." John, was insistent. Pulling his husband and lover along into the kitchens, while Mary looked painstakingly back and forth at her family. "I'll, just be going yes?" She leans up to kiss Quincy's cheek, hot with anger and from the tears prior.

"Quincy, you look at Seven as if he'd killed your cat and put him at your doorstep. What would you have me believe, that he's done nothing to deserve your malcontent? Or that there is something I've not seen and the both of you are unwilling to educate me?"

Bond, right here, wanted to open his mouth and resign, to go back on his word and Q's demands from prior. But how could he? After everything he'd done, why go back on all he has left. It'd kill him, and he doesn't know why, or how, this job became so damn personal. But the rouge on the princes' cheeks seemed to make him feel this way, true and through. When his head makes even a slight move, a twitch, Q speaks.

"Mother, _please_." He says, so desperate, Bond's heart twists harder and wrings so fucking tight in ways he didn't believe possible.

Q manages to keep his gaze off of the agent, "It was, a misunderstanding." He blinked down to the ground, almost embarrassed.

"It is my childish resolve."

No, no, Q, it wasn't...don't do this to yourself.

"I thought--well, I had misunderstood the perimeters of our relationship. I slept with him, despite his attempt to settle me. In my childish ignorance, I ignored any of his forewarning. I imagined, that we were more and it was my gregarious oversight that led to our awkward disposition... I assure you. Mustn't we all learn the hardships of love and lack-thereof one way, or another?"

_Why in all of hell's did he just do that? What the bloody buggering fuck?_

The Queen seems to take this over, think through this, and with a tight nod she simmers down. "I see, and I... I suppose I understand." She looks at them both severely, up and down. "Please, try to settle your differences-- the petulant back and forth has been giving me a migraine. I see no reason to draw out any struggles much further. Quincy, darling, go clean your face and eat something would you?"

He nods, wiping at the corners of his eyes as he's dismissed to leave, when the Queen is certain he is gone she gives her agent a darkened look; he doesn't even have to be told to follow her to her office.

* * *

 

 The refreshing smell of mint was the rooms aura, a caffeine free peppermint tea and Q's biscuits on her desk were in wait like clockwork. She sits to take a sip of tea, a deep breath, places it on the saucer while Bond stands there with the door shut behind him waiting silently. It's a full three minutes of quiet, the old grandfather clock tolls 8 P.M.

"What the hell is this about, Seven."

Voice a lot angrier than he anticipated, he watches with wide silvery eyes.

Somehow, this whole time he managed a clear and straight face. In the eyes of Q and even her majesty, but something right now has to be giving him away. She sniffs, rolling her eyes. "So, it's like this now, hm? Well, I can't say I blame you as Quincy has a way with people." Sighing, then a deep intake of freshly brewed air.

 "I honestly don't care for the details, as much as I care about the damn status of your relationship." Shaking her head, dismissively, leaning in to stare at him in a way he'd not seen in ages.

"You're going to fix this, Seven."

His eyes widen.

"You're going to figure out your shit, and you're going to sort your problems, you're going in for a psychological evaluation and then you're only going to be allowed back when the look on my sons face has changed in disposition."

Shock, and then, dismay. "Majesty..."

"No, I don't want to hear it. Whatever you have to say to me, whatever he says, both of you are thicker than moor fog. Don't test the realms of my intuition, James."

"What will you tell him, in my absence? I promised him I wouldn't leave..."

"Between us, it is paid suspension. With him? I'll tell him personally that I've sent you off to business with my sister, of course."

He's, actually had guard duties with her Majesty's sister before; so, believable enough.

"Majesty..."

"I don't want to hear excuses."

"It--it isn't, but, I don't know how to fix... whatever it was I've broken."

"I think that answers your own questions, don't you?"

Bond frowns, shaking his head, "I understand, your majesty."

"Good, and Bond, one more thing..."

He stopped at the door, looking back at her silently.

"If you break my son, I'll make you disappear."

A slow nod, locking eyes, before he's out and on his way to his car in the park. Quick, ready to explode, implode with the anger at himself and this entire cocked up situation. Slamming his car door, and setting over his steering wheel to close his eyes to think. When he notices something peculiar under the gas pedal, it made a crunch noise and he remembers this wrapping paper. He watched Q pick it out ages ago, sliding the small rotund package up onto the dash, he carefully unwraps one end; the design similar to that of a Christmas cracker.

When its all said and done, a roll of peppermint cookies sat in all their splendor, untouched besides one crumbled biscuit that his foot had so unknowingly ruined.

Frustrated, he slides the package onto the passenger seat, noting the small yellowed slip of baking parchment under the treats that he didn't deserve. Scrawled over in familiar script, Bond reads:

_But my hearts fine eye, is forever aligned, with the design of your desire._

_I'd drown there in your affection, willingly, ardently, and in this... Nothing can compare_

_Q_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Angsty, I know, I know-- but I'ma fix this. Also, yes, I wrote Q's poetry so no, there's no credit to be owed. At any rate, thank you so very fuckin' much for all the reads and reviews. Keeps me going, and have a happy fall! :D cheers


	15. Clearing Fog

_"From childhoods hour I have not been_

_as others were-- I have not seen_

_as others saw-- I could not bring_

_my passions from a common spring._

_From the same source I have not taken_

_my sorrow; I could not awaken_

_my heart to joy at the same tone;_

_and all I lov'd-- I lov'd alone."_

 

It's the day before Christmas eve, and Q is positively melancholy, he sleeps on the floor unable to touch his bed without smelling him all over it. He even sent all his blankets and cushions to the wash, so now it was stripped barren and solitary before him as he lay perpendicular to the mattress. Staring at the ceiling without any will to move, and so, perhaps it is a bit overreacting. But perhaps this is why so many poets of art, artists of lyric, lyricists of allegory all sang songs of heartbreak in kind. The prince could not be buggered to move from this appealing spot. A simple spot on the surface of a vast planet in the middle of an infinite galaxy in stars uncountable.

 

_Then-- in my childhood-- in the dawn_

_Of a most stormy life-- was drawn_

_The mystery which binds me still:_

_from torrent, or the fountain,_

_from the red cliff of the mountain,_

_from the sun that 'round me roll'd_

_in its autumn tint of gold--_

_from the lightning in the sky_

_as it passed me flying by--_

_from the thunder and the storm,_

_and the cloud that took the form_

_(when the rest of heaven was blue)_

_of a demon in my view._

 

"You were saying?"

Sherlock asked in his doorway, and nearly scared the ever loving piss out of him, yet he managed to stay still with only a slight flinch at the intrusion.

"Nothing."

"No, no I am pretty sure that is Edgar Allan Poe; really brother, so fucking...ah I know there's a word for this..." Walking right on in and making himself at home,doing a fluttering thing with his hands.

"Sherlock."

"No, no, no... I know this one, it's American I think?"

"Sherlock where is your master?" Q says thudding his head drolly backwards into the lavishly carpeted floor, managing to shove curly fringe into his face and lose his glasses that flop backwards into the ground.

"Emo!"

He answers, clapping his hands together, "You're behaving like an 'Emo kid' ah, hip, right?"

Q groans at Sherlock's admonishment.

"Go away."

He knows that won't work, and yet despite his intellect he ignores the likelihood.

"Well fine, I suppose I'll take my _Tesla_ and leave then..." Sherlock announces, as if this hadn't been his plan along. Just blithe and untoward like the fowl crow he was; of course Q bolted upright nearly losing his marbles with dizziness from the lack of nourishment and over abundance of tea. He has to hold himself upright with the banister of his bed, shaky coltish legs that need help keeping upright.

"Wa-wait, what do you mean er--er a Tesla?"

Sherlock swirls around with a devastating grin, that Q's eyes widen to. Loath he, the demons that smile in their darkest ways; "Then you'll come, I've about only..." checking his watch. "Two hours until it's properly reported stolen."

Q's smile gets even wider, "Oh you bastard, you right sod!" Shaking his head, how the hell he does this is beyond him. Sherlock, almost skips forward to grab his glasses and hand them off to his brother in haste. "Come on then, we don't have all day to watch you learn to walk again." Which, Q answers with a huff. They scurry down the hall, and the prince slips into his house slippers. They tip-toe (yes, literally) past John and Sherlock's guest room, and into the grand hall. Down the foyer, and into the garage...low and behold.

"Is this the Model s?" Q turns with a swivel, gawking openly and drooling in desire for a car. A bloody car.

"It is, a earlier edition, yes... I got it at the embassy. Pilfered the keys off the valet during the Christmas event, we have a little less than two hours." Making haste to the drivers side, as Q followed in hurried excitement.

"Oh my god, this is happening, holy shit it's _beautiful_...you monster!"

"I thought maybe you could help me with the security cameras... I'll give it back in one piece, of course." Batting his eyelashes; Q wacks him one, and it isn't gentle. But Sherlock only smiles.

"You bloody _buggering_ fuck!"

It is one of the most wonderful car rides down hilly moors he'd ever had. Sharp turns without speeding, the chilly air in some moments and then warm heat in others.

It was a fond moment, Sherlock drawls about morning tea with John. It's a lovely thought, no front page newspaper reports (When unwanted at least) or stupid appointments (Besides the random family ones.) Q watches the grey morning bright, eyes wide and not nearly as sullen as before. The fog was low set, gentle, and the snow reflected its light with clarity like purest marble. Like his feelings were bleached, replaced with something fallible and momentary. Pain existed, but the current dopamine high and excitement helped drain the disdain.

"You know, it takes two people to fuck up."

"Excellent deduction skills, brother. You must make a fortune."

"I know what you did."

Silence, Q stares off and out of the window. "You have no idea, Sherlock. Please can we..."

"No, no, no... no. And also, no, we're going to talk because apparently I'm shit at talking and so do you. A wonderful little family trait don't you think?" Sherlock huffs a breath of long held oxygen. Seemingly fumbling in his own regard. He doesn't do sensitive, he didn't do people, so this conversation was a bit... shocking to say in the least.

"Sherlock..." 

"Let me finish."

Silence again.

"Sometimes I do things, I do things that, you know, logical, so, sure? Why not, okay, practical in this way..."

Q blinks, thinking about that and thinking about it hard. Because sometimes you had to be in a certain head space to understand the older man. So he nods lightly, only halfway understanding at the moment.

"Then sometimes, it is purely selfish blinded with logical reasoning. I don't halfway have the idea how, I halfway don't even know how I made it this far in matrimony." As if talking about the weather.

"What is this about, Sherlock?" Q asks, lying in his own way. Omitting everything and remaining an impenetrable wall.

"You asked James to retain a relationship in secret while you remained with Sverre and in turn, what shall I say? 'Cocked it all up'."

Q gapes, openly, at his brother. "Excuse me?" Now thoroughly pissed, but, now he knows Sherlock _knows_ that the man did exactly that; and can't say otherwise. Damn him, damn his brother who, while socially inept, knew people too well for his own good. So the elder is paying attention to the road, yet smiles wickedly again, before shaking his head.

"Imagine if I were to do that same thing to John?"

Q couldn't, because he knows John would throw a fit bigger than the entire continent of Asia. He sullenly looks to the floor, "That isn't, it isn't what he told me."

"And for a genius, you're really not getting it."

"And what is that?" Frustrated, Q looks anywhere but in the car.

"Do you think a man like you, would be interested in another man that was open, emotional, and for fuck sakes...appeared to give more of a damn than usual?"

"Are you seriously suggesting..."

"Know, I know. As in, I saw him just the other day. Staring out the windows and at our performance in the courtyard. More importantly, at you, and if you tell me that the gaze he threw was _not_ anything more than speculative. I'll kick you out of the car."

"You most certainly will not."

"Probably... but I will torture you for a year...more-so than I do now." He finishes to keep Q from another blithe retort.

A low growl, Q shakes his head. "I don't think I can fix anything, anyway."

"Want to know a little secret?"

Q looks at him, like, _what the fuck is it now?_

 "Dear mum put him on paid leave, he's being forced through a psychological exam. Until he's cleared, he's not permitted near the family." Sherlock explains, which slowly starts to build a disgusting heat in his chest. Like the world pulled it all from his cheeks and now to his core, trying to process everything and distinguish all thoughts.

"I don't know what you should do, probably nothing, but that isn't really our style, is it?" His older brothers voice becomes background for the rest of the drive.

When Sherlock drops Q off, it is a little earlier than he intended because John was blowing up his phone.

"Did you even tell him you went out?"

"Ah, I may have, actually, not told him anything..."

"Sherlock!"

"Well, I couldn't very well tell him I was out stealing a car, could I?"

Q laughs, erasing the cars inner camera history with a few flicks of his wrist, giggling towards the end of his tomfoolery. He pads around the car to kiss his older brothers cheek. "I love you, but tell anyone and this makes national television."

"Ta." Sherlock shouts, and speeds off with John rushing out the open garage in his night robe. Angrily cursing, "What-- who's car is that? What is going on... Quincy?"

 Q appears minutely nervous for a moment, tightly pressed lips with a face paved over with gentle amusement. "I haven't the slightest idea."

Then, as if he owned the entire castle, he walks into the house; he'll give it to Sherlock, this time.

* * *

He keeps one lamp on, and sits in the corner of the room because he's too restless to sleep and he can't think of anything but someone barging through the door with a gun. Logically, that wont happen. Most likely, the rooms safe and he has nothing to be concerned about. Staring at the motionless television set, he wonders how he became so easily read. How the Queen figured him out so quickly and how Quincy; no he couldn't think about him. Bond takes a sip of the expensive scotch in his lap, uncapped and ready for his imbibing for the entire night.

The small golden clock stares at him in disdain, as if a mother scolding him to go to bed and rest it all off.

When a knock on the door, stuns him out of all thought and reason.

Blinking, rubbing across the day old stubble on his face when he hears the distinct Morse code Alec had set with him bi-weekly.

So, with reluctance and a gun in his holster the agent answers the door, not surprised in the least to see the dirty blonde man smiling sheepishly.

"Telephone." He hands him the phone, and walks back a little.

Bond, for the life of him, wants to chuck the phone at his head but the little dismissive and apologetic look in his good friend, makes that action nearly impossible. Looking at the back of his head, while lifting the flip phone to his cheek.

"Speak."

He says, voice rough with disuse and the sharp pang of alcohol.

_"Seven."_

His heart does something unhealthy, like a ripping thud sending vibrations up his shoulders and spine. Relief, despair, disquiet, distrust... looking thoroughly betrayed at Alec whom says nothing and doesn't even look at him.

"Your highness..."

_"Please, please allow me to talk. Please, give me just... any time. Anything..."_

As if he could say no to that? Ha.

"..."

_"I don't want you to come back and work for us if it isn't what you want anymore."_

It feels like steely rejection, like a saw to his neck... he asked for this once before. He even thought of doing this himself, but couldn't bring himself too. Didn't desire it, as it felt almost like...disloyalty.

_"But, I want you here, I want you, and I don't think I ever won't... sorry. I'm an incorrigible bastard, don't suppose that will change any time soon."_

Bond goes ridiculously still, mulling over the words as Q awkwardly chuckles off on his sentence; almost sounding choked up about it when cutting off his own laugh.

 _"I make stupid demands, I make stupid requests... I take everything I have for granted."_ The frown is in his voice.

He hates that he knows a stupid thing like that.

 _"I'm an idiot, offering... offering what I did, how I did it..."_ Groaning. _"Ugh, all I know is... however pathetic this is. However you see this, I don't care and I'm done being angry or dismissive. I want you to do what you want, because I love you..."_ Speaking from the heart as much as he could, as much as he ever would allow himself.

 _"I love you so much, and I want you happy more than I could ever have imagined, James."_ He's crying now, which again, Bond hates. 

 _"So please, please, I know how much you hate Psyche. I know how much you fear for yourself... I know and I know you don't like that I know very much..."_ A wet laugh, cut off with a hiccup that Bond momentarily forgets his anger to notice just how fucking adorable that is before scolding himself off from the thought.

Swallowing thickly, Bond is looking at the back of Alec's head once more, before staring straight ahead.

Closure, he thinks, the boy needs closure and doesn't want him to carry along in this way; it is the most selfless thing the younger man could do, and it stabs him in the chest with disgust at himself.

"I hereby formally resign, your highness. Thank you, for this opportunity."

Tears are freely flowing down Quincy's face now, he holds back the rattling, thunderous, sobs to nod it away.

 _"I understand, truly, and, I'm glad that... that you could be honest. Seven, thank you--er-- and tomorrow is Christmas. You're more than welcome to spend it with the family, you're family, no matter what my mother says."_ Voice wobbling in a way that is so heartbreaking Bond is almost sick with guilt. Sick with himself.

"Goodbye, Your majesty."

_"Ah, yes, good bye, and goodnight."  
_

When Bond hangs up, he turns around to Alec; receiving one quick, mighty blow, to the jaw that makes a cracking noise like violence and broken pavement.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To a dear reader who inspired me so! You know who you are!  
> -also the poem in italics above, is Edgar Allan Poe's 'Alone' and is not mine! thank you!


	16. Bloodied Melody

Bond doubled back at the shock of the solid jab, holding his face and haphazardly wiping at the steady crimson flow oozing from his nostrils. A bruise was forming from his jaw to his upper lip; which split a little from the contact of teeth. Alec held nothing back, nor did he hide the sheer murderous intent in his gaze.

"You're a fucking ass hat!"

Silent in the face of opposition for once.

"A fucking walnut of a man, James! How could you fuck with _his majesty_ like this?"

More silence from the older man,who sniffs as if that blood would disappear with a huff of breath.

"Its over now, Alec, anything I do now would be manipulative and cruel..."

"Ha! That's your excuse?!" Bond doesn't close the door behind him when he heads  inside so Alec takes this as an open invitation.

"He loves you, idiot, why the fuck would you hurt him like this?  What kind of sick shit is this? I thought only Americans could be this stupid..."

Bond doesn't answer just sits with a thud on the hotel chair. Opening the scotch he'd stashed without much more attention to the bottle than as if it were bottled water.

"Do you- did you even love him?" 

A pause, the blond begins to shake a little, then doused his thoughts with liquor.

"Oh great, your slipping into that again. Just like Afghanistan, just like the Sinai... " A deep breath of air, Alec walks over to him, crouching there in front of him.

"It doesn't matter who you are, your past, your age, Q deserves to be loved by the man that loves him."

"Can you really say that? Now? After all this mess..."

"Ha! If you think I'm gonna admit that you're the best thing for Q; you really are getting senile. It's, not about me...it's about Q and what he wants."

The silence envelopes, it's cloying and dripping with anxiety. 

At first Bond looks angry, with steel blue eyes lined in vicious scarlet lids. Exhausted old lines he hated and counted everyday, he stares with a look that could kill. But as his hands shake, So does his frame.

He drops the bottle to the floor, it lands with a dull thud on the carpet and a soft sloshing noise only stopped as Alec picks it up to put it safely on the desk.

The former agent is covering his face, shuddering and yet silent as the night.

A deep sigh, Alec pulls it from his lungs and stands up straight. 

"You have what it takes to do what's right and take what you want. It's your move, you have one chance, your best bet... is to not fuck it up like you did everything else."

"Go away, Alec." 

Alec only gets a smug look on his face, knowing he somehow got to him.

Turning promptly on his heel to leave.

* * *

 

Never before had Christmas classics sounded ever as mocking, Quincy thought as he carefully folded and stacked his Christmas presents. The holiday left some sort of nasty taste in his mouth like never before. Even if he never was a socialize-and-be-merry type of person. Getting drunk and dancing to loud music was one thing, having to actually talk and show feelings and stuff?

Bleh. 

His mother got him a lovely cardigan, all sorts of odd with three button-able pockets in deep maroon with lavender buttons in tow. Sherlock said he 'forgot' his at home, to which John scolded him and apologized for; really, the way that his elder brother winked. He was grateful for it, even though he technically got Sherlock a gift. Towels of Egyptian cotton, assigned to the both of them as a couple. Two birds, one stone, and thoughtful as the Holmes of the two tended to use their good towels for the aftermaths of experiments gone wrong.

Mycroft gave him a simple disc drive, apparently full of Q's favorite classical music, as he had given him a new leather bound journal. (A note inside, making fun of his 'medieval desire for pen on paper.') He got his dear mother a package of his cookies, and of course, a small book of his poetry with handmade paper and a silk bookmark. She seemed delighted, and even after Mary opened her custom-made laptop he still couldn't feel joy from the ache of his week.

His mother got him what she got all of them every year; a stocking with little things, goodies, etc etc. A doctor who angel plush, key chain, candies and peppermints, a spare usb drive. Whatever small to fancy, he enjoyed organizing them out every year and savouring the little treats inside.

The chocolate turned to ash in his mouth, he forgoes this for some meditation on his bedroom floor. (On the soft fluffy blanket Mary got him for Christmas.)

This was a recent thing, Q decided to take his frustrations out into nothingness and focus on the void in his subconscious.

 

"Quincy!"

His own name, so terribly horrified he can't help but burst off his bed; "What?!" Surprised, as Alec and Sherlock come rushing through his door.

"It's Mary, we think she's had an allergic reaction... she's at hospital and went into shock..." Sherlock explains, looking absolutely disheveled; okay so more than usual that is...

Alec looked pale, grim, and nods once, "Two and Eight are already on their way with her to Hospital, we're taking you in the private car." A car they'd use to drive into town with dark windows and low gaudiness to avoid from onlookers or the media.

This week had already become one hell of a roller coaster, as if the emotional shit hadn't been enough on its own?

Damn, he wants a drink already, to cure the nervousness, the anxiety, the tragedy he feels locked away.

They rush to the hospital, the car ride was tense and silent, Alec's look was apologetic and made Quincy fear for the absolute worse. They shield him from onlookers, the halls are empty and he can tell this was done before hand. Security was definitely on it, and this seemed serious; the Queen herself was sitting in the waiting room with guard accompanying her and consoling her.

She had her favorite handkerchief elegantly dabbing at apparent tears in her eyes as Mycroft held her.

"Mum... is she alright?" Q asks, voice unusually run ragged and quiet.

Nodding, but his eldest brother seems to take lead.

"She'll be alright, Mum's a bit shaken...that's all." Sighing, definitely not keen on putting up with emotional shit. Family trait so it seemed, and Q looks at Alec pleadingly.

"When can we see her?"

Alec looks to the ground, "We'll let you know when the doctors page, but for right now, it is only a waiting game." John sat with Sherlock in the corner, they were playing some sort of drawing game all quietly. A good way to keep each other out of the dumps, even though they didn't seem fully into it with the quiet chaos around them.

 Mary was missing. 

Well duh, of course, she's fucking in hospital but...

It was a stone cold reminder, that life was precious, family was precious, time was short, and he needed to see her. By god, he really, really, wanted to know if she was okay.

It was over an hour later, when the doctors gave their okay, and his mother and brother saw her first, then the couple in the corner, than Q and Alec... to which he was grateful to go last. Perhaps she'd be asleep, talking, would be so difficult as his eyes felt like they were going to bleed and his soul was close to crumbling from within. 

When he walks in the room, to see her on that bed, his eyes go wide in shock. His breathing goes frantic, heart racing more than it had in years, and then he wants to cry, to faint, for all of this to be some cruel joke to see her on this bed... looking like this.

He holds onto Alec's arm, catching his breath, and the overwhelming pressure of gaze is so much, that he hides his face into the American Agents chest in agony.

 

To be continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fuckin' did a thing... how fast I write the next chappy depends on all you fucks. <3 love you!!


	17. Fiddle meddle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double Trouble

_Three Hours Before Incident..._

* * *

 

Perhaps he should take a cruise, go see the world without a mission report to file afterwards. Bond mulls over, staring at the Spartan clean hotel room. Dazed, reminiscing and planning something other than eternal drunkenness. 

Mistakes were made, but he would no doubt ever learn from them. He shudders holding onto the arm of a chair, newly jumping when a heavy and urgent knock stuns him right out of la la land.

Hand on his gun in his jacket, he opens the door.

"Alec?"

"You know, I tried calling you..."

He'd never seen the younger man as flummoxed as he was now. "Listen, we need to get to hospital, Now..."

* * *

 Bond was dragged across Scotland and sporting the very loveliest of hangover headaches the world has ever known. Of course, it isn't as if he's not used to this. Although a pro at hiding any aberration for pomp and circumstance, it became increasingly difficult to not give a shit with all this scretive behavior. Yes, funny how something that once settled and ground him, now left the taste of bile in his throat.

Or was that the liquor?

A rainy and cold day as it were, Bond felt as if his head was on fire even as the brittle cold bit and nipped at his skin.

Alec refusing to explain anything, only speaking of admitting the youngest Holmes child earlier that afternoon into Hospital. Bond hadn't the slightest why they'd call upon him of all things, besides the royal family all inside a private and quartered off area in the general hospital; there was nothing else to have him attached to this situation, right?

Unless despite everything Miss Mary requested his presence. Which would be odd, but not unusual. The relationship he had with Mary was far more of a father to daughter. Having helped toilet train her, teach her how to hold her own, threaten the nasty dates she had and of course... let her cry in his arms as he told her she was far more better than the lot.

Help her with French homework.

Bond holds his face, agonized with his own decisions in life. The most recent to be precise, haunted and pulled at his mind into depths he didn't know possible.

This very well was his bloody family, and he'd done everything he could to muck it all up.

The procession felt like a dirge in the twilight of monochrome skies. 

Walk in, be frisked, a nod of clearance.

The man in jeans, grey jumper, black jacket... a complete wreck. Felt as silver as the sky, weak and facsimile. 

* * *

"...Bloody buggering hell."

"Darwins beard!" 

The two grown men exclaim at the same time, just as Quincy entered the room.

A fair haired, seemingly perfect in health, Mary, bolted out of the hospital bed after ripping 'faked' I.V's from her arm and face. 

"Cheers bruv!" A cheeky quip.

Alec shut the door behind them both, the hospital door locks with a audible clack. all happening so quickly, a quarantine room?! The Windows wouldn't even open for christ sakes!

Bond was brought to Mary earlier and left there to stew, which kept him unnerved and wondering if he should break through the windows or just leave, somehow. Yet, perhaps this was just a part of the secrecy, he had no idea that Q would be...

So tired looking.

Garish dark circles barely hidden with fringe and his thicker glasses; the ones he'd wear whilst cramming for uni. 

Bond is stunned.

He's perfect, lanky, lithe and male; but oh so perfect. 

He wants to slap himself silly, but the conflicted look on his face makes it difficult to speak. The devastation on Q's features, wrecked James and ate him from the inside, poisoned his thoughts.

Q lifts his glasses to rub at his eyes, sighing, disgruntled and exhausted. 

"I suppose my family is the cause of this. James I am terribly sorry, they seem to not understand the situation as it were..."

"And that is?" James says, he looks away knowing it was something stupid to say.

"..."

Q looks embarrassed now, ashamed, but then as if taking the responsibility of his stupid family, he continues.

"I am young, and foolish. You made a mista---"

"No, no I didn't."

Bonds defiant tone, commanding as ever. He locks eyes with the prince, anger blossoming over the brunette so fierce he nearly ducks for cover.

"So you purposely made a fool of me?"

"Q..."

"No! Don't you dare call me that anymore, I don't care to be played with. I've been a golden star on too many bedposts---"

"Majesty..."

The crimson heat builds between them, different shapes and temperatures. Boiling and radiant, scalding and passionate.

"---Loved for title and perky arse for more nights than none, is that what is going to happen now? I'm so sick of this shit--"

"Q."

"No I'm not finished!!--"

"Q, I'm the fool. I'm going to kiss you now."

"I beg your---"

It's a whirlwind, Q is made to stop. Just stop, wide eyed and bushy tailed with Bond wrapping his arms around the prince. Cupping his face and shoulder with his hands, Q tastes of sleep, bitter, tea leaves and just something extraordinarily Quincy. 

Tears are freely flowing, Bond takes his time to kiss them off his cheeks but only enough so he can return to the deed that Q is reciprocating. Weakly, pliantly, exhaustedly, reciprocal.

Bond steadied the younger man with his own solid posture. 

When he parts it is to place his head on the slightly shorter mans shoulder, breath him in deep. Shampoo, sleep ruffled and sweet; as his skin was always the aphrodisiac he desired. 

"I lied."

Unable to look him in the face, to speak much louder than a murmur.

"I lied to you, to myself, and I hurt you..." Clenching his eyes tight, his fingers into Q's cardigan.

"I lied about everything, Q, and if I knew then, what I undoubtedly know now---"

"What? What is it you know now?"

Quincy pulls away, Bond can't even look him in the face. Just turned, looking absolutely a fraction of the man Q was. 

"I love you. That I'm the bloody fool. I'm the selfish arsehole, and I hurt you." Making it sound like an unforgivable offense.

Earie silence and then; 

"Bond. You're drunk."

At that, the agent looks up in surprise to his former lover. Not expecting the simple look of consternation on the younger mans expression.

As if puzzled, as if he were simply doing homework for his AP Trigonometry. 

"You're drunk, possibly hungover, absolutely dehydrated and you smell like tar; take a shower, some paracetamol, a shave, and for buggering sakes... eat something!"

Bond nods, looking away from him once more, undeserving. Stomach burning him from the inside out as his face goes cold and weary. 

"And if... or when you have, sobered and cleaned up, call me and perhaps I'll have something to say to you. But now?" Q shakes his head.

"Right now I'll have nothing to do with you, Thanks." 

So he wasn't giving him an answer, but he wasn't writing him off for good. Which was more than he deserved, the Agent nodded shakily.

Finally looking up at the Prince, once more shocked with what he sees.

Rose red lips in a solid flat line, flushed cheeks, and gentle eyes. Caring, brows pursed, confused but still... sweet.

Bond finally breaths, feeling as though he hadn't been able to the whole time.

Q knocks on the door politely, answered by a curious Alec. Bond places a hand on Q's shoulder and nods at the other agent. 

Everyone else, had already gone home.

The agent and Q, follow suit.

* * *

 The royal family are playing a game of charades, Q is hardly as passionate as his brothers are. They leave for buckingham tomorrow afternoon.

Mary apologized the day before about the farce. It was Sherlocks idea so it seemed and he wasn't even a little apologetic about it.

Then again, when scrutenizing his family, he hardly gave a serious scold. More impressed with how well they pulled it off. Not even surprised at Sherlocks planning techniques.

"How are you so bloody bad at this game? But so good at stealing ridiculously priced cars?!"

John rolls his eyes, playfully frustrated and legitimately concerned; basically the common look he wore only surpassed with 'done with everyone's shit.' 

"Because Teslas are amazing?" Q says dreamily, closing his eyes, humming in content with the memory.

"I figure it wouldn't be a real Tesla, anymore." Sherlock deduced, shrugging a little. As if rudely woken up, Q squints at Sherlock. John looks just as confused, crossing his arms.

"Since we stole it, wouldn't we call it an Edison?"

Even Mycroft groans from behind his paper, sitting on the sofa as the rest of his brothers and sister, agonized.

Although Sherlock was laughing, and Quincy? 

He couldn't help but smile.

This family was odd, dysfunctional, sassy and dry.

It was his and he would never ask for anything more. 

Even if they enjoyed to meddle in his affairs like a lot of secondary schoolers.

When Mary began to yawn, John was rubbing his eyes and Mycroft was long past gone. Q took this as his sign to disband and assume the responsibility of getting people to bed.

Which was easy, all that was needed? A steady request that they all head for bed.

He settled in his own after a long hot shower, silky new Christmas pyjamas. A cuppa of decaf tea, slipping under the covers.

His phone feels heavy in his palm, plugging it into his charger for the night and staring at the time as minutes pass. Confused with his own actions, until he decides to grow the balls for his next line of action.

To: Seven

From: Q

Did you really mean it?

 

To:Q

From: Seven

Yes.

 

To: Seven

From: Q

Why should I believe you?

 

To:Q

From: Seven

You shouldn't.

 

To: Seven

From: Q

That's convincing :/

 

To:Q

From: Seven

It isn't meant to be

I made mistakes, unforgivable

I don't won't try any more than I should.

Words can only get me so far.

 

To: Seven

From: Q

So why try? 

 

To: Q 

From: Seven

I've got nothing left to lose.

 

To:Seven

From: Q

oh James always the melodramatic

you could have any woman in your bed. Any man, inbetween, whatever for that matter.

What in the hell makes me so special? What am I to you?

 

To: Q

From: Seven

Ive done many things in my life.

You're more terrifying than anything I've ever had to manage. 

 

To: Seven

From:Q

Are you barking mad?

Me?

And what do you mean, manage? I'm not a child, Bond.

 

 To: Q

From: Seven

I couldn't be professional around you, Quincy.

There were threats on the queen, on your person and the family... not too long ago.

Against all orders, I wanted to take you in my arms and shelter you.

Forgive me for disagreeing, when I say both watching over you and wanting you are both equally terrifying.

 

 Absolutely stunned, his majesty stares into his phones screen for so long it goes dark from misuse.

Running a hand through wicked brown curls, he groans exhaustedly. Hoping that his brain will unscramble.

 

To: Seven

From: Q

Well now you've quit, and you made me feel to be lower than the shit on your shoe that just won't scrape off.

I won't even pretend that I don't desire you, with all that I am.

But I don't trust you.

 

Bond can't help the chuckle out of his throat. It's dry and mirthless, but it's real and that bothers him. It was always this one, this man who turned his world on it's head and changed all the rules.

To: Q

From: Seven

You're far wiser than your years.

 

To: Bond

From: Q

Don't be contrary.

 

To: Q

From: Seven

Is that what I'm being?

 

To: Seven

From: Q

So that settles it then, lunch at Princes' Park in a week? Tuesday, 13:00?

 

To: Q

From: Seven

Yes, of course, I'll be there fifteen minutes early. 

 

Well he's a complete idiot, this won't be good. He never had a really good sense of self preservation anyway, far be it now that he'll develop any.

What bitch of a week, class started up and all the testing in the world couldn't sum up all the things he felt and wanted at once when he did see James again.

The man was absolutely gorgeous, shaded with branches for a moment. He cut a line in white sky with black peacoat and stunning eyes that pierced into cold air sharper than any awkward movement Quincy would be capable of.

It seems to take forever to talk, Bond walks silently beside him in circles around the park. Quiet, the two of them discerning how to pull up from the mirky depths of uncertainty.

"So." A crisp posh voice pulls James ashore. He fills his lungs, and fights for thoughts as Quincy's gaze overtakes him whole.

"Are you going to take me out for lunch?"

For the life of him, that was not what was expected.

Somehow the curly Q before him manages a bitter sweet smile. "What? I said I didn't trust you, not that I didn't want---" finally that veneer of confidence falls a notch.

"Its just...this is all I have left James." He turns and moves on into the agent slowly, gently leading him backwards into a rather large tree.

"the trust i have now, for you, is it. If you lie to me, if you, if you hurt me again like that... I'm gone. You'll never see me again, and if that means having Six on your arse---"

He had been pushing closer and closer when finally they collide into the perfect slotted piece of puzzle. Two part locket, Gold and silver, wrapped in obsidian... he'd never felt as wealthy in all his life as he did now.

Lips descended onto his, two patient hands holding his face with rough pads and heat that was taking his breath away.

The clouds they exhaled seemed to lift them away, locked into eachother with desperation and yet the caution of clarity.

Behind the hurt, the mistrust, the facimal  visage; they had always wanted one another.

Even if neither of them always knew just exactly what it was they wanted. 

Bond tastes of heat, like licorice and tap water, then a subtle hint of expensive after shave. From yesterday, a blonde rough scruff that etched against his clean shaven one.

When his tongue is met, he instantly moans as melt-in-your-mouth takes a whole different meaning.

A hand through his hair, another around his waist.

They stand there, in chilly afternoon yet the warmest part of the day, but it wasn't any concern. Bond was so incredibly warm, and when he unbuttons his jacket so Q can shove his arms around him from within; the shiver his highness manages is without a doubt the most adorable thing he'd ever seen.

Bond, drops to one kneee, Q gapes.

"Bond---no--"

"Wait, just..." Breathless, the agent continues and takes his hand. He never did shoot to miss, so he would aim at the heart of the issue. 

"Before, I'd already picked your present, I wanted to give it to you on Christmas Day." Shrugging, but unable to shake off the emotion on his face. 

"--I cocked everything up, and I'm going to do everything I can to regain your trust..."

From within his jacket, he pulls a brand new small velvet red box. Within, is a not so new ring.

pearls outlined it, it looked refurbished. 

"This, was my mothers and hers before her... she hated the bloody thing. It's all I had of her, I don't even know why I kept it..." Muttering that last part to himself, a little haphazard. 

"...It reminded me of you; something so cultured and refined in a way I've never seen in anyone before..." Shaking his head, "Keep this for me, you don't have to wear it, but please, I swear I'll do whatever I can to make this right again."

A beat, and Q quips: 

"Is this some sort of a promise ring?"

His voice is dazed and his face blank, as if he'd seen a ghost. Unknowing how to react, James looks only at Q's hands. Unable to look at the ring, or his highness' face any longer.

"It's whatever you wish it to be, but this is a promise... not for your behalf. But for mine."

Quiet, Bond feels the cold hands clench around the box for a moment. Then the snap of it being shut. Those very precious, lithe, fingers wrap his own around the velvet container.

The sting of defeat makes his insides boil and curdle. He turns his face, not wanting to stare, knowning if he looks at him now, in the face of such rejection...

The hands pat him, a shallow testiment of gentle let down.'There there, it's alright, I'll just be on my way.' It says, and he can't blame him for even a damn second.

"My god it is a horrid thing, isn't it?"

A cheerfully amused voice, Bond wants to hiss. How cruel?! And then, he knows, it's deserved. Choking back the pained noise, gaze snapping up to meet the Princes' once the hands refrain from touching. 

Tears in topaz emeralds, a fond smile, and more importantly; Q is cupping his own hand. Donning one very old ring, a perfect fit on cold slender digits 

Te left ring finger glistened gold in silver lighting.

"This--this isn't my proposal you tit!" 

Bond is staring shocked and slack jawed before him still on one knee and pathetically lost.

"Bloody oath, I love you, I love you so much it's stupid, and I accept all your apologies and all this..." Q leans down to meet him.

Kissing him.

"You're terrible." He says hissing with taken breath and tears. Another lock of lips, "Incorrigible, really." The wet press of tongue so warm and satisfying James can barely breath himself.

"I can't even-- I just--" He hiccups and this time the snogging gets messier and deeper.

"I just, love you, so much, please never hurt me again... you wanker!"

Bond nods into that next kiss, a promise, a blessing; here and in his arms and accepted.

"Hmm."

An appreciative hum from the older man, rubbing pale fingers warm. 

"Hmm? Hm. What's going through that maze of a mind of yours?"

Bond laughs a little, a broken sound, mixed with sincere thoughtfullness.

"Well I was just thinking, whether or not you'd be amenable for actual lunch? Or just my face?"

The younger man whacks his arm playfully, "Oh shush, you, you get to date me now. Legitimately, and you know what that means?"

Bond squints.

Q does the same back.

"Well obviously you can't work at the palace, and it's not going to be easy..."

He takes Q up into his arms, standing tall once again. Places him against a tree, he looks him in the eyes. "I'm never letting you go, ever again. I don't care what it takes." 

Q is bewildered a moment, "Hm." 

"Really?" 

Bond blinks.

The prince smirks a Cheshire like grin.

* * *

"Hmmmmm, yes, yes that is quite---" An obscene moan. Q's not even a little aroused but he knows his boyfriend is.

Too bad.

It's massage and cuddle night, Bond respects this. Kissing the sweet Prince on any area of bare skin he can manage.

Warming him up and running him down till his skin is red and relaxed, and his body is wound down into the cushions like a pad of melted butter on a scone.

"You're an unseemly cad, James Herbert Bond."

"..."

"But you're my unseemly cad."

James moved in, its intense and sweet pressing pulling. Closer, deeper, more.

Press your skin into me, make me one with you.

Let me whisper my devotion into your pours and through touch show my affection.

It isn't even sex, but James doesn't care. 

Theres an erect cock against his groin and he lets it be. It's a sign, a tribute, this mans attraction. 

No action is taken, just warm breath and devastation.

They lived happily ever after.


End file.
